


Devil's Spoke

by Khirsah



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Church Sex, F/M, Female Friendship, Includes ART!, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sacrilege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 59,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke could only gape as the unarmed Starkhaven prince stared down the Templars. It was like a scene from one of Varric’s blasted romances—only he was no virile knight and she no swooning maiden.</p><p>Well. Not usually.</p><p><b>Or:</b> Hawke is granted a limited period of legal asylum in the Kirkwall chantry. There, she falls in love with Sebastian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the wonderful rabidtanuki!   
> Visit her at http://rabidtanuki.tumblr.com/

  


“But I am your keeper,  
And I hold your face away from light.  
I am yours 'til they come;  
I am yours 'til they come.  
— **Devil’s Spoke** , Laura Marling

  


“Maker’s breath, Hawke,” Varric said with a low whistle. A fire was burning merrily in the hearth and the sound of laughter and raised voices drifted from beyond the nearest closed door. “When you say you’re going to move up in the world, by all the graces you _mean_ it.”

Hawke crossed her arms with a teasing smirk, watching as the dwarf poked through a pile of letters on her new desk. It was the first time she’d allowed any of her friends into the old Amell estate—bought, scrubbed, refurbished and furnished over three long years. “Did you see my crest?” she asked. At Varric’s raised brows, she pointed up the steps. “See? There on the wall, fit to smack you between the teats if you even think about braving the bedrooms. Mother had Bodahn moving the bloody thing for a full three hours before she was satisfied.”

She pushed away from the wall, long robes brushing the gray flagstones. She’d taken to wearing less conspicuous clothes in public—trouble was brewing in Kirkwall, and having a brother in the Order wasn’t exactly the best way to avoid Templar notice—but here in the comfort of her own home, she could do as she damn well pleased. “I’m half convinced she put it there as a warning. _Beware all ye who wouldst defile my daughter_.”

Varric snorted, carefully tugging Bianca from her strap and setting her on the table. “And has there been any defiling you wanted to tell me about? It’s shameful how long _Hawke’s Nest_ has been collecting dust half-penned, waiting for a friendly…” He turned to consider her. “Apostate mage? Broody ex-slave? Saucy pirate wench? Help me out here, Hawke.”

“It’s magnificently hairy dwarf or nothing, Varric,” Hawke teased.

“Damn and blast.” He reached into his pocket, producing a sizable coinpurse, and tossed it to her. Hawke caught it easily, cocking her head at the soft clink of metal. “Looks like that crest will go unchallenged for some time yet. I’m a one-woman dwarf, Hawke; you _know_ who has my heart.”

She pried open the knots to peek inside, firelight catching on silver and gold before she carelessly dropped the pouch next to his crossbow. “That bitch,” she said dryly. “Come on. You’ve gawked at my magnificent stairwell, admired my crest, taken care of business,” their Deep Roads venture was _still_ paying off, though Hawke could never bring herself to care much for the growing pile of gold in her vault, “and crushed my erotic hopes and dreams. Let’s join the others before they manage to burn down my new library. Most everyone’s here already,” she added as they turned and fell into step.

“ _Most_ everyone?” Varric held the door open, gesturing broadly for her to precede him. The raucous noise mostly muffled by thick stone and aged wood was now near-deafening.

“Mm,” she agreed, stepping into the library. The party was upstairs, in the loft. The strange Tevinter statue watched them as they moved toward the steps. “Anders is late—probably still at his clinic, if I know him. If he doesn’t come up through the cellars within a half-hour, I’ll send Trouble after him.”

Hawke crested the stairs, Trouble lifting a huge head from folded paws at his name.

“Hawke!” Isabela had a glass of red wine in each hand, drops scattering in a dramatic arc as she turned, like her own drunken brand of blood magic. “And _Varric_ , good. Now we can _really_ have fun. Kitten, make room for Varric.”

Merrill obediently scrambled up onto the arm of the huge wingback chair Hawke had dragged in for the party. She perched there, small and delicate as a bird, smiling as Varric took the seat.

“Here you go, sexy.” Isabela pressed a glass into Varric’s hand, the other into Hawke’s. “Aveline was _just_ about to tell us which of her guardsmen she’d most fancy to tumble if she could have her wicked way.”

“Aveline was about to tell you no such thing,” Aveline said firmly. The wine had brought unaccustomed color to her pale, freckled cheeks. 

Isabela tutted in response, moving toward where Aveline and Fenris were sitting together with a familiar sway to her step. Hawke watched her go, lips twisting wryly, then leaned in to murmur, “Careful, Varric. I have it on good authority that vintage was made with the blood and tears of Tevinter slaves.”

Varric paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “And who shared _that_ lovely bit of information with you?”

Hawke grinned and tilted her head toward Fenris. The elf was half in shadow, watching Isabela and Aveline bicker with a faint frown. “Who do you think? He’s got a better sense of humor than you give him credit for,” she added, moving to sit on the footstool. Trouble lifted his head again, whuffing out a heavy breath. “He _does_.”

“He’d have to,” Varric decided, studying the fine, rich red of the wine. Held up to the firelight, it really _did_ look like blood. “Seeing as I don’t give him any credit at all.” At Hawke’s laugh, he tipped back the glass, taking a deep swallow.

Merrill curled up smaller, elbow on one knee, chin resting on her fist. “What do the blood and tears of slaves taste like?” she mused. “I’ve drunk my share of blood, but never _tears_.”

Hawke choked on her own swallow of wine, nearly spitting a mouthful across Varric’s knees. Whining low, Trouble rose and padded over, sticking a cold nose into her armpit. Because _that_ was helpful. “You, I, _what_?” she managed, wiping at her mouth and staring at the tiny mage.

Hawke was the daughter of an apostate. She and her sister had learned two lessons at their father’s knee before _anything_ else: never get caught and never, _never_ give in to the temptations of demons. She’d taken those lessons to heart, and Maker’s breath, after over three years of friendship, Merrill’s blithe acceptance of the vilest magic _still_ made her limbs go cold.

“Oh,” Merrill said, limpid eyes going huge. “Was that not a good joke?”

Varric snorted and Hawke carefully set aside her glass, fighting the temptation to rub her temples. She opened her mouth to say something—diplomatic or teasing, she was never quite sure until it came tumbling out—but stopped at the sound of the main door opening.

“Saved by the apostate,” she said, rising to her feet. Fenris looked over at that, dark brows drawing together. Hawke pointed a single finger at him in warning—they’d come to their own uneasy peace long ago, and she was more than willing to use their friendship to keep Fenris and Anders from tearing at each other’s throats—before heading down the steps, Trouble at her heels. The party continued without her, voices rising and falling, irrepressible laughter mixed with growls of annoyance: merriment poised forever on the knife’s edge of violence.

“I was half convinced we’d have to drag you out of your clinic,” Hawke said merrily, heading out into the main room. “You’ve already missed half of the— Oh.” She stopped, robes swaying about her legs, faithful mabari tensing at her side. “You’re not who I expected.”

The filthy little boy scrunched up his face in apology. “Sorry about barging my way in,” he said, smoothly slipping his lockpicks into a pocket. “But I was banging awful loud and there was no answer. I was told I had to get this to you right away.” He paused, eyeing her. “You don’t look at all like he described. You’re _much_ prettier.”

“Thank you,” Hawke said dryly. She’d have to ask Isabela to check the locks for damage before the party wound down. “Usually I get the _opposite_ reaction.” She paused, waiting for the boy to hand over his message, but he seemed content to just stand there and stare. Finally, Hawke moved to the desk and opened her coinpurse, poking around until she found a silver. “Here,” she said, flipping it toward the boy. It glinted in the firelight, bright as a virgin blade, before he caught it in one grubby hand. “Buy yourself a meal and a warm bed for the night—it’s going to be a cold one.”

The silver disappeared into a worn pocket in a flash. “And you ain’t lying. Winters’ve been getting worse and worse. Some say them bloody Fereldans brought their ice and snow to the Marches with them.”

Trouble growled low in his throat. Hawke sank her fingers into the golden fur of his scruff, trying not to let her own expression cool. “Did you have a message for me?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Your dog ain’t gonna bite, is he?” The boy pulled a folded slip of paper from his shirt and passed it over, eyeing Trouble warily. “I didn’t mean nothing bad about them Fereldans. Their land’s cold, is all.”

“He won’t bite.” She offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but the messenger wasn’t looking at her as he edged out of the room, toward the main door. “Can you tell me who sent the message?”

The boy shook his head, hand on the knob. “Some dark-haired man,” he said, “in shiny armor. Caught me just inside the Gallows. I don’t remember the name.”

“Carver?” She’d never admit to the way her heart constricted at the thought. “Did he say his name was Carver?” Carver sent the occasional letter to their mother, of course, but he didn’t write Hawke often. There was still bad blood there, despite long years and distance. She supposed there always would be.

The boy just shrugged his shoulders, already out on the stoop. He was turning and trotting away before Hawke could say anything more, lost amongst the respectable crowds of Hightown within moments. 

Hawke stood there staring after him for a few long minutes before shaking herself. She moved to shut the door, twisting the lock experimentally, then sighed. Isabela would _definitely_ have to take a look—or Varric, if Isabela was too far into her cups.

She turned, murmuring, “Come on, boy,” as she headed back into the party, pausing long enough to snag the coinpurse and tuck it into her robes, just in case the little rogue came _back_. The welcome roar of her friends’ voices pulled her in, banishing the dark thoughts fighting for her attention.

Carver had sent her a message. Carver wanted her to read it right away. Carver had probably cocked up with the Templars and needed his big sister to come rushing in to save him.

Carver could go _hang_.

Feeling a brief stab of justified spite, Hawke slipped the note unread into her pocket and moved to retake her place on the footstool. Merrill had stolen her glass of wine and was already tipping dangerously close to drunk—it took _so little_. Isabela had found a new chair in Fenris’s lap, and though he looked halfway to crawling up the wall to escape, he was sitting still for now, only the faintest blue-white of lyrium flickering in warning.

“Was that Anders?” Aveline asked.

“No, it was a messenger.”

Merrill brightened, leaning forward. “But I thought you were never _here_ for messengers?” she said, nearly toppling over. Varric reached out to steady her, one strong hand at her elbow. “I thought you were _cursed_.”

“Oh, Merrill,” Aveline sighed.

“What’s this about curses, Kitten?” Isabela called. “Three gold says the curse is on Hawke’s smallclothes. Ooh, I think I’ve read a romance about that. Should I go fetch a dashing Chantry brother?”

Hawke closed her eyes, tipping her head back. Maker, they’d be the death of her someday.

“What does it say?” Merrill continued. “Is it important? Is it from your mother? Didn’t you say we had to be gone before your mother got home? Should we go now? I don’t think I can go now. My knees don’t want to work.”

“No, it’s— Oh, Andraste’s tits, here.” She pulled out the folded note and thrust it at Merrill. “It’s not from Mother, it’s from _Carver_. And I’m not willing to be arsed enough to care what he has to say right now, but you should feel free.” Hawke rose, forcing herself to gentle her voice—because she really didn’t mean to snap—as she added, “And be careful, Kitten, or even Varric won’t be able to keep you from falling.”

Merrill hummed in low agreement, spreading open the note. Feeling agitated, Hawke crossed the room to secure a new glass, filling it to the brim. Droplets of red spilled over her fingers as she lifted it for a deep drink—her hands were shaking.

“Do you think he’s in trouble?” Fenris’s low, gravelly voice barely carried to her, and she half wished she could pretend she hadn’t heard.

Hawke downed her glass with three long swallows and slammed it onto the table. She pressed a hand to the warm, fine-grained wood and leaned forward, head dropping. “Yes,” she said. “No. I don’t know. He doesn’t exactly make a habit of writing me.”

Isabela propped her chin on Fenris’s shoulder, still perched easily on his lap. “Screw him, I say!” she said, concern lacing through her forced gaiety. “If he wants to be an utter cock, he can keep it up in the Gallows where it belongs. Take his moodiness out at night and stroke it.”

Hawke huffed an amused breath. “Please don’t talk about my brother and stroking things in the same sentence,” she said, glancing at her friends with real warmth. “If I—”

“ _Hawke_!”

There was real fear in Merrill’s voice. Hawke immediately whirled, lightning springing to her fingertips as she scoured the room for their attackers and saw…nothing. No men with swords, no Carta thugs, no giant spiders. Just Merrill perched on the arm of the wingback chair, delicate face gone bone white, huge eyes lifting from Carver’s note.

“What is it, Kitten?” Isabela asked. She’d slid smoothly from Fenris’s lap, blades in hand. He was shifting uneasily next to her, glowing with blue-white fire.

Merrill’s eyes met Hawke’s, and Hawke felt her insides go cold at the sheer terror in them. “Oh, Hawke,” Merrill said, beginning to tremble. “He says… He says the Templars are coming for you. The Templars are going to make you _Tranquil_.”


	2. Chapter 2

The room erupted into instant chaos.

“ _What_?”

“Andraste’s tits.”

“Don’t worry, Hawke—they’d have to get through _me_ first.”

“Funny how they chose _now_ to make their move, isn’t it?”

“Do you figure we should hide?”

“You’d think Carver could have done better than a blasted note. Oh wait— _no you wouldn’t_. Maker’s hairy nutsack.”

“Maybe the Wounded Coast?”

“Suspicious, even.”

“Someone should warn Anders.”

“You can stop glaring at me like that—I had no hand in this.”

“Oh, Hawke.”

“We have to do _something_.”

Hawke closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as her friends’ voices rose and fell, crashing around her like a wave against unsteady stone. She felt… She wasn’t sure what she felt yet. It was all a frozen, jumbled mess, building up power and noise inside her chest until she thought she might choke.

The Templars were coming. After so many years of living in Kirkwall, using magic in her daily adventures and practically _daring_ them to take notice, the Templars were coming. The Templars were going to make her _Tranquil_.

She could remember Karl’s passive face so clearly. She could see his eyes, empty. So Maker-blessed empty. Hawke stifled the high whine that rose in her throat, fists clenching at her sides. No matter what it took, she wasn’t going to let that happen to her. She couldn’t.

“I have to get out of here.”

Her voice silenced her friends as effectively as any Templar counter-spell. Hawke swallowed, forcing herself to open her eyes and look at their angry, anxious faces.

“I have to leave the city, maybe for good. A— A ship. I’ll need a ship.” She took a step forward, and _thank the Maker_ that seemed to melt away the last of the terror that had kept her frozen in place. Hawke brushed past Isabela and Fenris, moving toward the stairs with growing purpose. As one, they fell into step behind her. “Merrill,” she said, taking the stairs two at a time, “you go down to the clinic. Find Anders, and no matter _what_ it takes, drag him deep into Darktown. Stay there until Varric sends word that I’ve been taken or fled and it’s safe for you to return.”

“Oh, _Hawke_.”

“You’ll need food and blankets. The kitchen is that way.” She pointed. “Blankets are in the little closet down that hall. You have five minutes to gather what you need and take the cellar exit—you remember where that is?”

Merrill’s eyes were bright with tears, but she nodded.

“Good. _Go_. Varric,” Hawke added, turning to the dwarf as Merrill sprinted away. “About that ship—”

He was already bundling up Bianca. “I’m on it. There’s a merchantman bound for Orlais in the harbor. I’ll start making some inquiries and greasing some palms. Don’t.” He shot her a hard glare when she began to reach into her robes for that gold-filled purse. “Keep it. You’re going to need gold to buy passage back to Kirkwall when things calm down.”

“Home sweet pisshole,” she murmured, proud that her voice didn’t quaver. “Get a message to my mother as soon as possible. She’s somewhere near the Hightown shops, I think. I’ll head to the Dalish. Keeper Marethari should be willing to help hide me until we can smuggle me onboard a ship, and I doubt the Templars would think to look for me there. I may need backup, though. Aveline, I can’t ask that of you—”

The guardswoman interrupted her fiercely. “You can and you will. You and your family helped me all those years ago, Hawke. I won’t pay you back by abandoning you now.”

She wanted to protest, but the gleam in Aveline’s eyes made Hawke hold her tongue. “Very well,” she finally murmured before turning to Fenris. “You should hide as well. Stop growling, you know it’s true. Isabela, you will—”

“Isabela will think of a _better_ plan.” The pirate dropped her hands to her curvy hips, rocking up onto the balls of her feet. “Because as much as I normally enjoy following your lead, sweetheart, you’re not exactly at your best. Varric,” she added, “keep to course. Ship, Dalish camp, mother-Hawke—all that remains the same. Hawke, _you_ have five minutes to gather anything of value, find a nice hood, and grab your best staff. Do you still keep your discards like the sad little packrat you are?”

“Isabela…”

“Hawke. Do you still keep your discards like the sad little packrat you are?”

Hawke glanced over toward her storage trunk. Six old staves she had long since outgrown were neatly stacked under the table for _just in case_.

“Good! That means Aveline, Fenris—the three of us are going to play dress-up.”

“What are you talking about?” Aveline demanded. “Now isn’t the time for—”

Isabela spoke over her, shouting to be heard. “The three of us are going to play dress-up as _Hawke_. It’s nearly dark. Four figures in Hawke’s robes and hoods, carrying one of her staves? They won’t know which of us to follow. We’ll meet up at the usual spot outside the city and head to the Dalish together. There!” she added, shooting Hawke a satisfied smile. Varric was already slipping out the door. “Not all of my plans are rubbish.”

“That actually isn’t a terrible idea,” Aveline mused. “At the very least, we’ll have a better shot in a fight if we manage to water down their numbers.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Hawke tried to protest. It was one thing to drag her friends into open battle when she could keep an eye on them—protect them—but it was something completely different to let them risk themselves when she wasn’t around to watch their backs.

Isabela shot her a look. “You can and you will, Hawke. We’ve all asked you to do worse when _we_ needed the help.”

“We are taking too long,” Fenris interrupted brusquely. He pushed past Hawke, moving with purposeful grace, and crouched to pull her discarded staves from beneath the table. Hawke watched him with a dizzying sort of gratitude and disbelief—seeing Fenris _willingly_ touch one of her staves had the breath of miracle about it. She never thought she’d see the day. “Here.” He stood, shoving one into Aveline’s hand and one into Isabela’s. “No more questions; we act now or we prepare to face them here.”

“You’ll see, Hawke,” Isabela added as Aveline and Fenris moved up the steps to the bedrooms. She twirled her staff once, testing its weight with a thoughtful look. “It’s all going to go swimmingly. Leave the red one for me!” she called, tossing a wink over her shoulder before vaulting up the stairs.

Hawke watched her go, feeling oddly helpless in the face of their incredible kindness. It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected her friends to rally for her. They’d been through so much together. It was just…

It was just strange, she decided, to be the protected rather than the protector. It wasn’t a role she was comfortable with.

Trouble whined low in his throat, shoving his nose against her hand, and Hawke looked down with a faint smile. She crouched, digging her fingers into his scruff as she met those hyper-intelligent dark eyes. “I’m going to need you to go find Mother,” she murmured. “She’s going to be all alone until I get back; you’re going to have to take care of her. No matter what she says, you are to show your teeth to any suitor who comes to call, jump into bed and lay on her legs whenever she seems lonely, and bite the ass off of anyone who tries to hurt her. Can you do that for me?”

Trouble barked once.

“What a _good_ boy.” She pressed her face against warm fur, breathing in the scent of him, as if she could fill her lungs with the smell of home and take it with her all the way to…wherever she ended up. Then she pulled back, rising to her feet again. “Now go on,” Hawke said, moving to hold open the door. “Go find Mother.”

Trouble bounded away obediently, weaving through the thinning crowds of well-dressed Hightown residents and cutpurses. Hawke watched him go for a moment, heart constricting, before better sense caught up with her. “Idiot,” she muttered beneath her breath, quickly pulling back and shutting the door. She was wasting all of the forewarning Carver had managed to give.

Carver. She was going to owe him one hell of an apology later.

Turning on her heel, urgency rising again, Hawke hurried to her storage chest. It was a jumble of odds and ends—weapons she kept meaning to parcel out to her friends, enchanted amulets and rings, woven belts bespelled to increase mana. She sorted them quickly, finding the small trinkets she’d most relied on in the last few months and leaving the rest for someone else to worry about. Aveline, Hawke decided, riffling quickly through the papers on her desk. Aveline could parcel them out fairly.

She could hear movement and her friends’ voices drifting from upstairs. There was very little time left. How long did it take to go from the Gallows to Hightown? Maker, not long enough.

Hawke stuffed papers and her effects into a bag she snagged off the wall, hurrying back into the library. A copy of Anders’ manifesto was dropped in unceremoniously, followed by one of Varric’s books and a slim volume of erotic short stories Isabella kept trying to foist on her. It seemed silly to take a bottle of Danarius’ Tevinter wine, but she had nothing else of Fenris’s. She still wore the braided bracelet Merrill had made her (using strips of moth-eaten scarves found here and there throughout the city), and Aveline—

Well. There was no keepsake big enough to encapsulate what Aveline had meant to her life. She supposed memory and the pink, snaking scars mapping her flesh left over from their desperate run from Lothering would have to do.

Hawke hurried upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and pushed into her room. Aveline, Isabela and yes, even Fenris were dressed in her robes—a row strange-looking apostates. Isabela was doling out hoods, and she tossed one to Hawke as she stepped through the doorway. “Do you have everything you need?” Isabela asked.

“Almost.” Hawke absently wound her dark hair into a messy bun and shoved it up into the hood as she crouched, opening the battered old chest that represented her last memories of home. She didn’t take time to sort through them—she was hyperaware of every minute ticking by now, panic butting up against her firm resolve—barely seeing the precious mementos as she bundled them into her bag. “There,” Hawke said, rising. She turned just as Aveline tugged her bag from her hands, sliding in a fresh change of clothing with a murmured, motherly, “You’ll catch your death if you don’t take something warmer with you.”

Impulsively, Hawke threw her arms around the redhead, drawing her in for a fierce hug. But that felt too much like goodbye, so she pulled back quickly, flushed with emotion. Aveline just nodded, handing Hawke the bag that now represented her entire life. “You’ll come back to us soon, Hawke,” she said quietly.

“Ooh, do I get felt up too?” Isabela wormed her way between them, cupping Hawke’s cheeks and kissing her soundly on the mouth. “There. Now hug Fenris and let’s get out of here before we use up all the usefulness Carver has _ever_ managed.” She slid on her hood, tossing Aveline another bag—this one stuffed with Maker knew what. Dirty smallclothes, as far as Hawke could figure.

She glanced over at Fenris, arching her brows beneath the protection of the hood, but he just scowled at her. “I am already wearing your clothing, Hawke,” he muttered, yanking on his own hood. “Do not try me.”

“Then I’ll refrain from telling you how fetching you look in it!”

His small chuff could have been amusement or dismissal—it was impossible to tell with the prickly elf. But there wasn’t time to toy it out. “All right,” Hawke said, settling the strap of her bag carefully across her chest. She grabbed her current staff and scanned her trio of friends. In the full light of day, no one would mistake them for Hawke: Isabela too curvy, Aveline too muscular, Fenris too…Fenris. But in the growing dim of twilight, with any luck, they would do. “Are we ready?”

“We have your back, Hawke,” Aveline said.

“Remember, we’ll meet in our usual place outside the city. Don’t take any chances, don’t put yourselves into any more danger than necessary, and if they come after you, try to lose them instead of picking a fight.” She knew better than to assume any of them would actually _listen_ , but it was worth a shot. “All right, if we’re going to do this, let’s go.”

They didn’t say anything more as they left her room, her Hightown estate. There was nothing more to say, Hawke figured, except the obvious: thank you, I love you, please don’t get yourselves killed for me.

The sun was sinking low on the horizon, ivy-covered walls of beautiful Hightown estates tinged dusky violet in twilight. She could hear the call of gulls and the ever-present drone of the sea. The air was still enough that she could just make out the cry of merchantmen barkers drifting up from the market.

And of course— _of course_ —she could hear the clank of armor as a knot of heavily fortified Templars turned the corner and came into view.

Hawke felt a surge of fear, chased instantly by fury and a massive kick of adrenaline. _He says the Templars are coming for you. The Templars are going to make you Tranquil_.

_Not today._

She lifted her staff, ready to call down fire, but Isabela beat her to it. The pirate darted forward, face masked by her hood, holding out one of Hawke’s old staves. “Suck on a fireball!” Isabela cried, flinging out one hand dramatically. There was an explosion of smoke and flames, grenade shattering on the cobblestones. 

And then they were lost in a cloud of smoke, Isabela’s laughter the only fixed point in the sudden dim.


	3. Chapter 3

Hawke couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.

Without a word, acting like the finely oiled unit they were, Hawke, Aveline, Fenris and Isabela scattered. Hawke didn’t spare a second glance as she darted around a heavily armored shape in the dim, running full-tilt away from the confused shouting.

“There! She’s getting away!”

“She’s heading toward the market!”

“Up toward the Chantry!”

An unexpected surge of laughter rose in her throat, giddy and near-hysterical as Hawke took the first corner. _The Templars are coming_ had been the boogeyman of her childhood—the threat of being torn from her family, of her father and Bethany being taken, of her freedom or very _mind_ being stolen from her. She’d always imagined it happening in violence in blood and some desperate last stand. This was almost a farce in comparison.

“Someone grab her!” a voice shouted some distance away. Hawke spared a single glance over her shoulder, surprised to see only a single Templar in her wake. Maker, that meant the others would have to face more than their fair share.

“Where are your friends?” Hawke called back, darting down an alleyway, across a square. She knew this town better than anyone, save Varric. She could imagine a dozen possible escape routes, all carefully mapped in her mind. “Don’t tell me you think you can take me in by _yourself_.”

She turned a sharp corner, dancing around a surprised merchant. Seconds later, the Templar cursed as he barreled into the other man.

“Andraste take— Someone stop her!”

No one did.

Hawke took another turn, heading toward the Red Light District. She could see Athenril perched on a pile of crates, head lifting at the growing commotion. One of the whores—Cora—was leaning against the wall just outside the Rose. Her brows arched sharply at the sight of Hawke, and she reached out to hold the door open in welcome even as Athenril’s men began to move smoothly forward.

They wouldn’t try to stop the Templar, Hawke knew. That wasn’t how her former employer worked. But they’d sure as hell get in his way.

Hawke flashed Cora what she hoped was a charming grin as she took a right and dashed into The Blooming Rose. Cora shut the door behind her immediately, cries from the street muffled and indistinct.

Hawke paused, weighing her options, then pushed forward. The Rose wasn’t crowded this time of day, and a quick scan revealed her uncle’s usual spot empty. “A Templar’s about to burst through that door,” Hawke called to Serendipity as she hurried up the main steps.

“We’ve handled our fair share of Templars here. Haven’t we, girls?”

Hawke didn’t recognize all of the girls who moved to clog up the doorway, but she was intensely grateful she’d spent so much time chasing various leads and doing miscellaneous favors for the brothel over the years.

At the top landing, she hooked a left just as the main door slammed open. Hawke didn’t look back, slipping into Jethann’s room. He was with a client, arms hooked around plump thighs, chin slick with come. “Don’t mind me,” Hawke said, crossing to the window. “I’m just passing through. Though if anyone asks…”

“If anyone asks,” Jethann murmured, tongue snaking out, “we were too busy seeing stars to spot anything else. Isn’t that right?”

The girl’s low moan was answer enough. Hawke shot Jethann a quick grin before slithering through his window and out onto the tiled roof. She turned to close the window softly before taking a few careful steps. Up here, she could clearly hear the continued hubbub in the streets below.

She could also see across the rooftops into Lowtown, and beyond that, the sea.

_I don’t want to leave this place_. The sentiment surprised her. No matter what she’d said to Fenris years ago, she’d never realized she’d honestly come to think of Kirkwall as home. _Fereldan_ was home. Fereldan with its cold and its mud and its new king and Warden-Commander queen. Kirkwall was just the place she’d found herself after the storm had washed her entire family to shore.

And yet here she was, aching at the thought of having to leave it.

Though, Hawke reminded herself, she wouldn’t _be_ leaving if she didn’t get her ass in gear. She’d be selling enchanted goods in the Gallows until one of her friends slipped a dagger between her ribs, a Tranquil shell of herself.

Setting her jaw in a firm line, Hawke moved across the rooftop to where it abutted its neighbor. She hopped the small gap of the alleyway neatly, then the next, then the next. There were scores of traps and deliberately loosened tiles up here thanks to the endless gangs who made use of the city’s rooftops, but all her time with Varric and Isabela had trained her eye enough that she could spot most of them, even if she didn’t trust herself to try her hand at disarming.

Hawke glanced over her shoulder now and again to make sure she wasn’t being followed, but the darkening skyline was clear. _It can’t really be this simple_ , she mused, following the sloping roofs toward Lowtown, skirting the marketplace.

It wasn’t.

“Kindly get your hands off me.”

The words weren’t shouted, but then, Leandra Amell never needed to shout to be heard. Hawke nearly lost her footing in her surprise, dropping into an easy crouch with one hand flat against tile to steady herself. She was just above the landing where she’d met Ninette de Carrac’s worthless husband, with a clear view down into the Hightown market.

Many of the merchants had already packed up, but there was still a few hanging back, glancing at each other in growing alarm. The nobles and cutpurses had all scattered, leaving Leandra alone, standing proud amongst a ring of armed men. Carver was nowhere in sight—of course not; he would never have stood by for this—nor were any of the semi-friendly faces she’d come to recognize. One of the Templars had a huge gauntleted hand around her mother’s upper arm. Hawke’s gaze narrowed in on the way he tightened his grip, so much so that she almost missed the tawny-furred body laying still ( _not dead; Maker, not dead_ ) at his mistresses’ feet.

“We need you to come with us,” the Templar said.

“We _humbly request_ ,” another corrected.

“I _politely decline_ your invitation.” Leandra’s voice was pure ice. “And after the barbarism you have shown, you can be certain I will complain to the Knight-Commander.”

The big Templar’s grip tightened as he moved closer, lips to her mother’s ear. Hawke couldn’t hear what he said, but she saw her mother’s eyes widen. She saw the way her cheeks went pale, the way she began to tremble.

The rush of fury Hawke felt was like _nothing_ she had experienced before. She straightened like a shot. “ _Get away from her!_ ” she snarled, feeling something snap inside, _pushing_ against it with all her might.

The power that erupted from within her was raw, untrained. She’d excelled at elemental magic all her life, but this was something new—something frightening, if she had room left to be frightened. The pure force of it was staggering, blowing the Templars off their feet and sending them clattering across the cobblestones. They tumbled, cursing, and were held down by an invisible fist as Hawke threw everything she had into the spell.

Leandra stumbled, then staggered to her feet, looking up with wild eyes. Her hair had come half undone, fine gray wisps brushing her strong features. “Marian!” she gasped, taking a quick step forward. Then, screaming, “ _Run_!”

Hawke didn’t want to run; she wanted to _fight_. She tore the hood aside, black hair tumbling free, spilling herself into the force magic bearing down on the helpless men. She would ground them to fine powder. She would squeeze their bodies until they exploded into a fine pink mist.

Power raged through her blood, crackling across her skin. Lightning snaked across polished armor and a storm of fire rained down on pitted stone. She would drive them into the very earth itself if she could—and in this moment, she had no doubt that she _could_. She had never felt anything like it before. She had never managed to dig so deep.

But power like that could not be maintained, not by flesh. Minutes, hours later, Hawke finally staggered, mana nearly depleted. Hawke clawed at the slipping threads of the spell, trying to hold on, but she was quickly losing control. She could almost feel it unraveling between her fingertips, the sheer power of her will dissolving in the face of her body’s weakness. She couldn’t sustain that level of fury for long, not without blood magic.

And that was still a bridge too far.

Hawke let go of the spell with a ragged gasp, leaning against her staff for support. The Templars were beginning to stir, slowly clanking to their feet.

“Marian, _run. Run_ ,” her mother cried again. The Templar who had dared lay hands on her was up and listing toward the stairs, sword drawn. Others were just a few beats behind him.

Hawke met her mother’s eyes for a long, gutted moment, then turned and fled across the rooftops.

She slipped on a loose tile just four steps in, tumbling to her hands and knees. Hawke hissed in a breath and staggered up, then nearly fell head-first into a gas trap. She whirled away just in time, scraping herself raw in an attempt to avoid the pressure plate. “Maker,” she breathed, righting herself and running to the ledge. The alley’s jump that had seemed so narrow, so _easy_ before now looked more like a chasm.

In battle, whenever she dug so deep that she was painfully scraping the bottom of her body’s ability to produce mana, she could always rely on her companions to take the heat off her while she drank a bottle of lyrium or waited until she could recharge naturally. Now she had no lyrium—more fool she—and no _time_.

She made the jump, but just barely. She could hear shouts and clanging armor in the streets below her, cutting her off from an escape into Lowtown.

Hawke whirled, heading east, staggering across the rooftops as if drunk. She triggered another trap, green poison seeping in her wake, but she was already grabbing hold of a drain pipe and half-sliding, half-falling down by the time it drifted over the lip of the roof. She landed on the cobblestones hard, feeling the impact lace through her bones, but there wasn’t time to feel the pain—she was scrambling to her feet in an instant, staggering down the alleyway toward the main square.

She needed to get back to the Red Light District, Hawke told herself. Just double back and head down the broad stairs. Athenril would help her, she knew, unless it meant getting caught. And once she was in Lowtown, the scum of the streets would rise up to protect her. Practically _everyone_ in Lowtown knew her, or knew _of_ her, thanks to Varric. She would—

Hawke skidded to a stop as she turned a blind corner, nearly running straight into the arms of Ser Karras.

He started, surprised, but recovered quicker than she could manage. “ _Hawke_ ,” he growled, grabbing for her. She could feel the Silence settle over her, penning in her magic. Not for the first time, she wished bitterly that she had killed him outside that cave instead of letting Varric talk their way out of a fight. “I should have known you were one of them. Well now you’re going to be one of _ours_. On behalf of the Order of the Templars, in Andraste’s grace, I name you mage. You will come with me.”

She twisted viciously in his grip, desperately trying to call up magic she didn’t have, couldn’t reach if she did. She vividly remembered the things Alain had told her about this man, and if she only had a blade on her, she would have happily drawn it across his throat.

Ser Karras let go of one of her arms, turning to drag her down the alleyway. He had his captured apostate magically bound, unable to access even the most basic spell. But he hadn’t bound her _limbs_ , the blighted idiot, and Hawke was nothing if not resourceful. She tossed her staff to her now-free hand and jabbed it between his armored feet, twisting viciously. Ser Karras gave a shout of surprise as he stumbled, tripping to the stone in a graceless heap, dragging Hawke with him. One of his armored arms crashed against the side of her head as he tried to catch himself, making her see stars— _don’t black out, don’t black out_ —and her legs were partially pinned, but she managed to snake free just enough to turn the staff in her hand and bring it down with all her might across his unprotected face.

“Maker take you,” she snarled, striking him again. Again. Ser Karras moaned and grabbed for her, but she twisted away hard, dragging up onto her knees. Blood spattered her face as she swung again, using the last of her strength.

He collapsed back into a spreading pool of blood, unconscious.

Hawke let out a shuddering breath, clenching her staff with slick fingers. She was trembling with fear and adrenaline, but the Silence spell was fading and she was free—for now. She could hear footsteps clanging as the others ran toward the sound of the scuffle, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before she was facing down a half-dozen of them.

She staggered up to her feet, the ends of her robe ripping where they caught on the sharp edges of his Templar armor, and _ran_. The Red Light District was lost to her. The Hightown Market was impossible. There was just one place left for her to go, and Hawke threw herself into her headlong sprint, breath ragged in her chest. She was nearing the edge of collapse, entire body aching, insides on fire. The world streaked by in a watercolor blur, and she could hear nothing over the roaring in her ears as she threw herself up the steps toward the huge chantry doors.

_I won’t, I won’t_ , Hawke thought desperately. _I’ll kill them before I let them, I’ll kill myself before I let them. I won’t. I **won’t**._

She slammed against the door, all too aware of Templars not far behind, weakened and frightened and blazing with the will to survive. The heavy door creaked as she pushed with all her might, slipping into the cool dark of the Chantry covered in a spray of blood and nearly falling to her knees as she called, “Help, someone, I— _Sanctuary_.”

There were shapes moving deeper into the Chantry, indistinct against the flickering candlelight. Hawke blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head. Dark motes blurred her vision as she pushed back against the door, slamming it closed with a hollow boom. She listed forward, holding onto consciousness with sheer bullheadedness.

One of the sisters stepped through an open doorway to her right, gasping at the sight of her. “I need,” Hawke tried to say, but the sister gasped and ducked out of sight again. Hawke spared a glance over her shoulder, aware that Templars could come bursting through the Chantry door at any moment. She wouldn’t have the strength to fight them alone for long.

“Hawke?”

She turned blindly toward the familiar voice. “Sebastian,” she breathed in equal parts relief and dismay. Hawke took a staggering step forward, nearly tripping over the ragged ends of her robe. _Any port in a storm_. “Sebastian, I need—”

He was at her side in an instant, all gleaming white armor, blue eyes scanning her face with clear concern. “You need a healer,” he said, one strong arm going around her middle to take her weight. “Should I send word to your…friend?”

Hawke grabbed at the neck of his breastplate, hands leaving red streaks as she fought to stay upright under her own power. The temptation to just let go, to let this man she barely knew catch her was almost overwhelming, but she had to fight it. She had to be ready to defend herself. “No,” she said, sharper than she intended. “I don’t have time for that. I have to—”

“Sebastian, child, what is going on?” The Grand Cleric moved toward them, growing alarm on her kind, open face, and for a moment Hawke could almost see herself with their eyes—robes torn, a bruise blossoming across her face and left eye, other bruises visible through streaks of gore. Black hair snarled and blue eyes no doubt wild as any demon’s. “Serra Hawke, what has happened?”

“Sanctuary,” Hawke said at once, swaying within the uncertain circle of Sebastian’s arms, gaze fixed on the old woman’s face. She was not a devout follower of the faith, rarely even prayed, but she was praying now—to Elthina, who may as well have been Andraste made flesh for all the power she had over Hawke’s life now. “Please, your Grace, I need asylum, I—”

She twisted at the sound of a heavy fist against the Chantry door.

“Serra Hawke,” Elthina protested, “this is most unusual. Please, let me find you a poultice. We will care for your injuries and speak further on—”

“No!” Hawke snapped, struggling away from Sebastian as the huge door was slowly pushed open. It was going to be a fight after all. “There isn’t _time_ for that. Maker take you. Get back.” She lifted a hand, trying to call magic to her fingertips, utterly _gutted_.

And then Sebastian caught the edge of her sleeve, tugging her hand down. “I will vouch for her,” he said, eyes on Hawke’s face. “For so long as she remains under our protection, I will vouch for the actions of Serra Hawke.”

“ _Sebastian_ ,” Hawke hissed, turning on him, but the Grand Cleric was already murmuring, “As you wish, child. By the grace of Andraste, Serra Marian Hawke, I grant you the gift of sanctuary.”

She didn’t have time to feel the relief that should have come with those words. The door was open and three Templars were pushing inside, swords drawn. The first of them—Ser Mettin—spotted Hawke at once, moving toward her with a threatening, “On behalf of the Order of the Templars, in Andraste’s grace—”

She didn’t let him finish.

Tapping into her slowly recharging mana, Hawke searched for that strange new magic, that _force_ inside her, and shoved the Templars back. They went skittering away from her, slamming against the heavy Chantry doors with a crash of metal against metal. “Stay away from me,” Hawke said, voice a near-growl.

“Sera Hawke!” Elthina said. “You are in the Maker’s house.”

“Silence.”

Hawke gasped at the feeling of her mana being drained away, ripped from inside as the pall of Silence fell over her again. Ser Mettin’s blade was leveled at her throat. “On behalf of the Order of the Templars, in Andraste’s grace, I name you mage. You will come with me.”

Sebastian wrapped his fingers about Hawke’s wrist, pulling her behind him. “She will not.” Hawke could only gape as the unarmed Starkhaven prince stared down the Templars. It was like a scene from one of Varric’s blasted romances—only he was no virile knight and she no swooning maiden.

Well. Not usually.

“Sebastian,” Hawke began, only to be cut off by the Grand Cleric. “Sebastian is correct. Sera Hawke is under the protection of the Chantry. Asylum has been asked and granted; you have no authority here.”

“Your Grace,” one of the other Templars protested. Ser Mettin did not lower his blade. It was a hair’s breath away from Sebastian’s throat, but Sebastian barely acknowledged it, eyes locked with the other man’s. Staring him down, utterly fearless. “This is a known apostate. A maleficar.”

Hawke pressed forward in fury. “I am no such—” but Sebastian held her safely back, grip tightening.

Elthina moved until she was standing shoulder to shoulder with Sebastian, forming a wall between Hawke and the Templars. “I will hear your charges against Sera Hawke at the correct time in the correct manner. Until then, your duty has been discharged; Sera Hawke will remain under my protection, her conduct vouchsafed.”

They hesitated, sharing glances amongst themselves. Ser Mettin slowly lowered his sword.

“Now,” Elthina continued briskly, “I do not believe it is necessary for me to show you the door?”

Hawke watched in silent disbelief as the Templars sheathed their blades and meekly murmured dissent. Her blood was pounding loud in her ears and her body _ached_ inside and out from the headlong rush through the streets, the fall, the stranglehold on her mana. She leaned heavily against her staff, hyperaware of the firm brand of Sebastian’s fingers locked about her wrist, warning her to keep her peace.

Ser Mettin glanced once over his shoulder, a familiar fanatical light in his eyes. The choking spell, as it slipped away, was almost a caress, and Hawke shivered despite herself. She remained shivering, limbs trembling with strain as the huge Chantry door boomed shut. Adrenaline was seeping from her, leaving her bloodied limbs weak, her vision swimming in and out from the blow she had taken.

Sebastian and Elthina turned toward her, Sebastian openly concerned, Elthina spreading her concern between them with a murmured, “Oh, child. An _apostate_?”

“She needed our aid,” Sebastian said, accented voice surprisingly gruff. He loosened his gentle grip but did not step away, blue eyes scanning Hawke’s face in growing alarm. “Hawke?” he said, hands lifting and…hovering there, as if he wasn’t sure how or where to touch her now that the crisis had passed.

Hawke wet her lips, bloody fingers slipping down the shaft of her staff as she fought to remain upright. Adrenaline, it turned out, was a miraculous thing. Now that it was gone, she wasn’t sure she could feel her feet, much less keep on them. “I am not a swooning maiden,” she said. “And you are no knight.”

Sebastian blinked rapidly, glancing toward the Grand Cleric as if she could somehow translate the non sequitur. “Ah, no,” he agreed slowly. “I would never accuse you of such a thing.”

“Good,” Hawke said firmly.

Then, all the fight gone out of her, she swooned.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hawke!” Sebastian reacted instinctively, catching Hawke before she could hit the floor. One arm slid around her waist, hoisting her close. The other braced her shoulders. He’d been watching her from afar for three full years, ever since she’d faced down Flint Company for him, and despite the battles she’d fought and the injuries she’d sustained, in all that time he’d never seen her like _this_. It frightened him in a way he didn’t want to examine. “Hawke, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

Her head lolled back, lashes dark against blood-spattered cheeks. She was so pale she was almost otherworldly. But her chest rose and fell with steady breaths, thank the Maker, and she seemed hurt but not fatally injured. “She’s all right,” he said, more to himself than Elthina. “I believe she’s going to be all right.” He impulsively reached up to brush hair from her eyes, letting her weight rest against his steady frame.

Then Sebastian looked up, meeting the Grand Cleric’s gaze. She was frozen in place, gray brows lifted, lips pursed.

And he was all at once blindingly _aware_ that he was holding a woman—a very beautiful woman—braced intimately against his body.

“I,” Sebastian began, flushing darkly. He held her in the now-awkward circle of his arms, shifting her in his grip as he shuffled and cleared his throat and desperately tried to find a less…suggestive way to keep her from toppling to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Her head was tipped back to expose the long, pale line of her neck, snarled black hair spilling over his hands. He’d had to brace her flush against his body, and she was… It was just… If he could only just…

He looked up at Elthina helplessly.

“Oh no,” the Grand Cleric said, lifting her hands palm-forward in a warding gesture. “You vouchsafed her, Sebastian—she is _your_ concern.”

“But…what do I _do_ with her?” Sebastian looked down again, awkwardly shuffling until he could take Hawke’s weight with one arm about her waist, the other lifting to cup the back of her skull to ease the strain off her neck. Even matted and streaked with gore, her black hair was remarkably soft.

“I would recommend a healing poultice and a bath, myself.”

Sebastian’s head jerked up. “You, I,” he began. “But— Your Grace isn’t suggesting— One of the sisters _surely_ would—”

“ _Your_ concern, child.” Elthina’s voice softened as she stepped in, lightly clasping his shoulder. “I do not think any of the sisters will be eager to have anything to do with a suspected maleficar, do you?” she murmured. “Especially considering the city’s unrest. You have brought a great shadow to our door, Sebastian.”

He wanted to protest that Hawke was no maleficar. Apostate, yes. Mercenary, perhaps. But he’d seen her in action—he’d seen her kindness and her humor and her _grace_ in the face of impossible odds. She was no more evil than he, despite the heavy burden of her powers. No matter what scripture might say.

“Did you know?” Elthina asked. Sebastian didn’t have to wonder what she meant.

“Yes,” he murmured.

She squeezed his shoulder again in gentle compassion. “Oh, child. I will pray for us all.” Sebastian didn’t look up as she turned away. Her footsteps echoed across the flagstones. And he was alone with Hawke.

“Well,” Sebastian said, shifting her unconscious body within his self-conscious embrace. “ _Now_ what do I do with you?”

He half hoped she’d rouse at the sound of his voice and take the whole messy matter from his hands, but Hawke remained insensate, limbs heavy and loose, eyes shut. Sebastian cleared his throat, fighting against the blush that wanted to immolate him from the inside out, and glanced once toward the main altar. Most of the Chantry sisters had scattered at the first sign of trouble and the big church was echoingly empty. Standing still and silent, the imposing status of Andraste seemed to look down on him in open bemusement.

Right. Step one: pick up Hawke.

He cleared his throat again and carefully ducked, grip shifting until he had one arm bracing Hawke’s shoulders, the other sliding beneath her thighs. He lifted her easily, settling her into the curve of his body. The bag looped across her body swayed as he turned in an anxious, confused circle.

Step two: …he had no idea what step two should be.

“Ah, right, well. I don’t suppose you want to offer any insight, Hawke?” She was lighter than he had expected, based on the generous curves of her body. Not that he made a habit of studying the generous curves of her— _Blessed Andraste_. “No? No ribald quip? No joke? That is completely unlike you.”

Thank the Maker the _dwarf_ wasn’t here.

“Her Grace was right—I can’t put you with the sisters.” And she certainly couldn’t be taken to _his_ little cell, the one he’d kept despite forsaking his vows three years ago. He glanced up, toward where several cots lined the open upper level of the main Chantry. The poor and destitute slept there on occasion, but he couldn’t imagine Hawke would find that comfortable. She’d fought so hard to claw her way out of the gutter—it didn’t seem right to throw her back down again.

Which left the visiting dignitary’s suite.

“Right, hold on then.”

Sebastian shifted his grip, turning and heading toward the stairs. He left Hawke’s staff where it had clattered to the flagstones, still not certain what he would do about _that_. Was he supposed to confiscate it? Was he expected to guard her? He wished he’d known what he was getting into when he vouched for her, though he knew he would do it again even now. “You have an interesting way of turning lives upside-down, Sera Hawke,” Sebastian murmured, pushing open the door with a foot and carefully stepping inside. “Just as often as you right them, I think.”

The room was a long, richly decorated rectangle. A single door stood at the end, leading out to a balcony with a perfect view of the city. The fireplace was empty, but it was cleaned and the bedclothes replaced often. The four-poster bed was hung heavy with draped cloth stitched in gold. A large copper tub sat in the far corner, half-hidden by a screen. A small desk and polished wood chair sat next to the large wardrobe. Sebastian couldn’t even remember the last time the room had been used.

He laid her across the bedpane carefully, smoothing hair back from her face. She looked strangely small within the huge bed, delicate in a way that made his stomach churn with quiet anger. He would have fought Ser Mettin if it had come to that. Here in the Chantry, before the Grand Cleric, Andraste, and the Maker himself, he would have fought for her. He knew he should feel shame over that, but he didn’t—all he felt was a deep, anxious churning in his stomach as he thought about how close she had come to being taken.

Sebastian brushed his thumb carefully over her mottled brow, wiping away a streak of blood. “I would have come for you, Hawke,” Sebastian murmured, as serious as a vow. “I would have saved you.”

Her lashes flickered, but she did not rouse. Pushing out a heavy breath, Sebastian straightened and surveyed Hawke, trying to piece together what he should do next. Her bag and…her robe…and her wounds. The Grand Cleric had also said something about a _bath_. Maker help him.

He could start with the easy parts, at least.

Sebastian lifted the strap from around Hawke’s shoulder, tugging away her bag. It was heavy—far heavier than expected—and faintly damp. The heady scent of wine undercut the bitter tang of blood, and he frowned as he brushed his fingers over the sodden cloth.

He moved to set the bag on the desk, pushing it open to fish out a cracked bottle. Fine fissures ran up the sides, beads of red making the glass slick. He grabbed the water basin, setting the bottle on its side in the bowl to keep the wine from reaching the worst of the cracks. He probably should have thrown it away, but…if Hawke had cared enough to carry it with her in her mad flight out of the city, then it was important enough to be saved.

He quickly emptied her bag and hung the sodden cloth on the lip of the basin, checking over the strange collection of books and mementos she’d gathered. Sebastian didn’t let himself look too closely, not wanting to violate her privacy, as he carefully blotted damp pages and propped books before the unlit fire. He moved methodically, oddly relieved to have a task at hand that didn’t involve pale skin and an unnervingly beautiful face.

But he couldn’t avoid Hawke forever. Once Sebastian was sure her unusual assortment of treasures had been salvaged without too much damage, he _had_ to move back to the bed to tend to the woman at the center of all this trouble. She was still unconscious, face turned against the pillow so that the worse of her bruises was nearly hidden, breath coming in and out in soft, even gusts. Sebastian cleared his throat, carefully reaching out to touch the collar of her robe. He half expected her to startle awake and grab for him, but she remained still. Serene, nearly.

He _sincerely_ wished Anders were here.

 _Coward_ , Sebastian scolded himself, fingers twitching at the throat of her robe. He hesitated at the clasp, uncertain exactly how to proceed. He had to inspect her for injuries, had to clean her, had to make a poultice.

Hawke shifted in sleep, murmuring quietly, and Sebastian yanked his hand back as if burned. He turned on his heel and practically bolted from the room, cheeks on _fire_. Right. Right! A poultice. A poultice required elfroot and bandages and…things he needed to obtain from _somewhere else_. Somewhere that was not standing by Hawke’s bedside trying to figure out how to disrobe her without bursting into flames on the spot.

_If the dwarf were here, I would never hear the end of it._


	5. Chapter 5

Awareness came slowly.

She was warm and comfortable despite the strange weightiness of her limbs. Hawke could feel the salt-tinged breeze against her cheek, ruffling through loose strands of hair. With each steady breath, her lungs filled with the soothing scents of clean linen and elfroot, and the _silence_ …

It was the silence, she decided, that had woken her. Even with Bethany and Carver gone, the Hawke household was _never_ quiet. Trouble could always be found sprawled across the foot of her bed, wheezing his way through mabari dreams. In Lowtown, there had been Gamlen’s high-pitched snores just a few feet away. In Hightown, there had been neighbors throwing elaborate parties and a surprising number of midnight gang-related brawls. Bodahn and Sandal or her mother puttering about. A log popping in the fire. _Something_.

The Chantry, Hawke realized with a sinking heart, was nearly ominous in its peace.

She drew in an unsteady breath and slowly turned her face away from the window. There was a candle guttering nearby, painting shadows across her lids. Hawke blinked open her eyes, squinting against the pinpoint of light. Not two feet away from where she lay, looking somehow younger—or at least more human—without all his pristine white armor, Sebastian Vael drowsed in a chair.

The Choirboy, unguarded and asleep alone in a room with a suspected maleficar. That was…definitely unexpected. She couldn’t even imagine what Varric would say. She could certainly imagine what Isabela would _do_.

Hawke studied Sebastian for a long minute. In the candlelight, his skin was an even darker gold than usual. Long lashes rested against boyish cheeks, and his lips parted as he drew in each breath. His hair, usually kept neatly brushed back, fell across his brow in disarray. Graceful, long-fingered hands were folded across his stomach. His shirtsleeves had been rolled up, revealing cords of muscle and an unexpected dusting of freckles. He looked…

Exhausted. As worn down and aching as she felt.

 _He isn’t the one with the threat of a Templar’s brand hovering over his brow_ , Hawke reminded herself. She deliberately looked away, setting her jaw as she carefully—gingerly—sat up. The heavy weight of the coverlet fell around her waist and she shivered at the decidedly cool air.

She had to get out of here.

Hawke reached up to press her fingers against her temple, willing away the lingering throb of pain. If she was any sort of healer, she could probably take care of it herself—fix up the damage she felt as she gingerly shifted on the mattress. Make herself good as new for _another_ desperate flight across the rooftops. She wondered how many Templars there were guarding the Chantry doors. She wondered if _Sebastian_ was one of her guards. He was Chantry-raised, after all, a once-sworn Brother. It didn’t matter if he had forsaken his vows or, in a moment of madness, had vouched for her—surely he and the Grand Cleric would bow to Meredith’s wishes. It was the _Maker’s will_ she rot up in the Gallows anyway.

And she wasn’t the first mage who’d met a bad end on the Choirboy’s turf.

Shoulders hunching against the memory of Karl’s blank-eyed stare, of Anders’ broken moan, Hawke pushed herself fully up and swung a leg over the edge of the bed. The bedframe creaked beneath her weight, startlingly loud.

Predictably, because her life wasn’t allowed to be _simple_ , Sebastian stirred. His lashes flickered in half-wakefulness and his murmured brogue was huskier than usual. “Marian?”

Hawke stiffened at the unexpected intimacy. _No one_ called her Marian. “Oh, Andraste’s tits,” she snapped, hands fisting in the bedclothes, “isn’t this cozy? Please tell me I didn’t fuck you.”

His reaction was exactly as dramatic as she had been hoping.

Sebastian jolted out of half-sleep with a startled noise, straightening and flailing— _ha!_ —to regain his balance. He lifted his palms as if to ward her off, already shaking his head. She had never seen a grown man blush so hard, but she wasn’t in the mood to find it charming. She wasn’t in the mood to find _anything_ charming. “Ah, no,” Sebastian said, rising awkwardly to his feet. His voice was still husky with sleep. “No, no you did not. We did not.”

“Good. I’m pretty sure I’ve already used up all my penance for this lifetime.” She deliberately turned away and glanced around the room, gaze lingering on the open window. She could see ships bobbing on a black sea, lights making white sails into ghostly wings in the darkness. The Chantry looked out over all of Kirkwall; the city seemed strange and small from this height.

And the Gallows glowed in the distance like the sun around which all of them orbited.

“Damn it,” Hawke whispered, eyes fixing on that distant point. She’d spent her entire life fighting to keep herself free of a place like that, and now… 

If she’d been alone, she would have drawn her legs up and wrapped protectively around herself. She may even have given in to the temptation to cry. The Templars had come for her. The Templars wanted to make her Tranquil, and even though she had found a moment of peace here with the Choirboy, she wasn’t stupid enough to think they wouldn’t come after her again. Meredith was not the sort of woman who left loose ends.

The mattress dipped under Sebastian’s weight and Hawke glanced over, meeting clear blue eyes. The… _empathy_ she saw there made her bristle. “Don’t,” she said.

“It isn’t so bad as all that,” Sebastian said gently. _Earnestly_. As if he understood a quarter of what she was feeling. “You have forty days of asylum, Hawke. Who knows what could happen in that time? Her Grace and I will petition the Viscount to—”

“ _Don’t_.” Her hands were trembling. She folded them tight in her lap and set her jaw in defiance. “I don’t want to hear this from you. I don’t want you near me.”

Sebastian hesitated, then stood, putting distance between them again. _Respectful_ , as always. Maker, it was so difficult to be angry with someone who refused to fight back. Carver had always made her fight for everything. Even now that he was with the Templars, he was a (bitterly missed) thorn in her side. 

And the _others_. She was constantly having to juggle the wants and needs of her friends, keeping Anders to one side of her and Merrill and Fenris to the other—keeping _Merrill and Fenris_ apart. Being a buffer between Aveline and Isabela. Running errands for half the blighted city. Even Varric demanded she be heroic, if only for his own amusement.

Hawke didn’t know what to do with someone who _asked nothing of her_. Who wouldn’t even fight back when she pushed. It was maddening, especially when her heart was climbing in her throat with rising panic and she _needed_ the excuse to fight.

She needed someone to _hate_.

“I have to get out of here,” Hawke said, shoving away the covers. She was still in her torn and filthy robes, but the blood had been washed from her face and arms all the way past the elbow. Bandages were wrapped neatly about her injured leg and she could feel the soothing tingle of elfroot. The fact that Sebastian was probably behind all this just made her all the more eager to escape. She didn’t like debts, and she already owed Sebastian too much. “You can call for the guard if you feel you have to, but I’d appreciate a head start.”

Hawke popped to her feet…and immediately regretted it when the whole room began to spin. “Maker’s furry nutsack.”

Sebastian caught her elbow as Hawke swayed, one broad hand sliding down to the small of her back. He gently guided her to the edge of the mattress, clear blue eyes intent on her face. “You need to be careful, Hawke,” he murmured. “There were no potions in the Chantry storeroom, and you lost a great deal of blood and— And mana.” It was impossible to miss the way he stumbled over those words. “You should give yourself a day or two of rest, unless we can—”

“Unless we can get another _apostate_ snuck in to heal the damage?”

“I was going to call him by name,” Sebastian said mildly. He waited until she was steady again before letting go. “But, if you’d rather…yes. Another apostate snuck in to heal the damage. You’ve been very badly hurt.”

Hawke dragged her fingers through her hair, catching against the knots and snarls. She felt so Maker-damned weary. So frightened. She _hated_ feeling frightened. “What does it matter to you anyway?”

“Hawke,” Sebastian said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “it matters because I am your friend.”

She twisted to look at him— _really_ look at him, eyes scanning his damnably earnest face. His brows were drawn together in an inverted V, eyes glowing almost eerily bright in the dim. Sebastian didn’t have the same kind of armor as the rest of the world. His face was open, his heart in his eyes. Maker, it was so easy to read him. She’d known children with more guile than the Choirboy.

“Sebastian,” Hawke said, slow and clear. “We are _not friends_.”

He jerked back a little at that, then shuttered his eyes as if he could disguise the flash of _hurt_.

 _Oh no_ , Hawke thought, nails biting into the flesh of her palms. _Oh no, no, no. You are not going to feel guilty about this_. Sebastian was an (ex) Chantry Brother. He was sworn to uphold the same divine laws as the Templars. He was _on their side_ —more so than Fenris, who had proven his loyalty over three long years, or even Carver. Carver had joined the Templars because he had a blasted chip on his shoulder and a pile of nonsense to prove. _Sebastian_ had taken vows because he was a true believer.

Two shared quests and an unexpected willingness to look the other way when she cast spells against a desire demon did not smooth over the very basic fact that they were on the opposite sides of a huge philosophical chasm. For Andraste’s sake, he was the exact sort she’d spent her life _running from_. He _had_ to realize that meant they could never be…friends.

“Ah,” Sebastian finally said. He was pulling himself up straight, gaze ticked slightly to her left, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. As if she had hurt him _that badly_. Hawke bit the inside of her mouth, twisting her fingers together and fighting the Maker-damned impulse to take it all back. 

_Chantry Brother! Disciple of Andraste! Wants all mages in the Circle!_

“Look,” Hawke said, blowing out an unsteady breath. “Maker’s balls. Sebastian, it isn’t that— Oh, void take it. It isn’t that you’re not perfectly nice or anything—”

“No,” he interrupted smoothly. He still wouldn’t—couldn’t, maybe—look at her, but there was a small, almost sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Please, Hawke, you don’t need to explain. You barely know me, and you have no reason to believe I can be trusted.”

She shrugged a shoulder uncomfortably. “Well, you did swear yourself to a church that is pretty strongly bent on tossing me ass over teakettle into the Gallows. Or worse.”

 _That_ made him look at her, eyes flashing with…something. She couldn’t quite read it. “Well,” he said after a strange, tense moment. “That aside, you’re safe now. The Grand Cleric has given you Sanctuary—you’ll have forty days before you’ll be forced to choose between the Circle and banishment.”

As if Meredith would give her a _choice_.

“I don’t plan to stick around that long,” Hawke said. She studied his face, watching the spark of…concern? Alarm? Annoyance? She took back everything she’d thought about his face being _easy_ to read; she damned well couldn’t make heads or tails of his expression now. “Just…better to be safe and very, very far away from the Templars who want to run me through with swords, right?”

“Of course,” Sebastian said stiffly. He glanced back toward the door. “I should go. I was just here to…”

“Pervily watch me sleep?” Hawke offered with a faint smile. As olive branches went, it was a bit bare and spiky, but void take it—she was still shaken. And _not_ feeling guilty. Not at all. “You’re right—you’d better get out of here before someone starts passing around rumors. Varric’s bound to pick up on them, and I’m not sure you’re ready to be the star of his next literary attempt.”

Sebastian cleared his throat. “As you wish,” he said. He turned and moved toward the door on near-silent feet.

“Sebastian,” Hawke called out at the last moment. Sebastian didn’t turn back, though he tilted his chin toward her. His profile was strong—beautiful even. His shoulders and spine were drawn as tight as one of his bowstrings.

 _I’m sorry I’m such a tit_ , she wanted to say. Or maybe even, _If you weren’t sworn to the very people after my apostate ass, maybe we could have been friends_. Or: _I don’t actually blame you for any of this; I just needed someone to blame besides myself_.

Instead, she cleared her throat and offered, “Thanks. You know. For vouching.”

He nodded once and opened the door. “Of course,” he said, so formally they may as well have been strangers. Sebastian paused, then added, awkwardly, “I sent out word, to let your friends know you were safe. None of them were apprehended. I…thought you would like to know.”

And then he slipped through the door and pulled it quietly shut behind him. Hawke stared at the door for several long, shocked minutes before flopping back on the bed. The bed Sebastian Vael, Choirboy, had provided out of the goodness of his holier-than-everyone heart. “Right,” she said to the ceiling. “Okay. Now I feel like a _complete_ tit.”


	6. Chapter 6

She stayed like that—sprawled across the bed, hands folded over her stomach as she stared moodily up at the canopy—for Maker knew how long. A bell tolled in a nearby tower. Through the open window, she could just make out the hushed whisper of waves slapping against crumbling city foundations. A faint wind made the candle gutter noisily and her thoughts tripped one over the other.

Hawke blew out an annoyed breath. She was being ridiculous. She _knew_ she was being ridiculous. There were things to do, plans to be hatched, Templars to escape. And yet.

 _And yet_ she couldn’t stop picturing the hurt in his eyes. She felt like such a _fool_.

“Not now,” Hawke muttered to herself, scrubbing at her face with the heels of her palms. She didn’t have time to worry about him now. Besides, where did Sebastian Vael get the impression that they were friends anyway? Where did he get off _presuming_ as much? All right, fine, so she’d helped him avenge the murder of his family. And right, okay, so she’d gone into a demon-infested Hightown estate on his behalf. So she’d given him his grandfather’s bow. So she’d _flirted_ with him.

That didn’t mean anything; anyone, anywhere, could have _told_ him that didn’t mean anything. Maker’s balls, Hawke flirted with the Arishok every time their paths crossed—it didn’t mean she wanted to get up close and personal with his _Qun_.

Maybe the (ex) Chantry Brother didn’t know that. Maybe he was just that bloody innocent. Maybe he was— _stop feeling sorry for him, Hawke; for Maker’s sake, the last thing you need is another complication_ —just that lonely.

Well, if that were the case, she’d just…ask Varric to buy him a kitten. Apparently that had worked for Anders once upon a time. It was out of Hawke’s hands. There was nothing she could do for Sebastian even if she’d wanted to. She wasn’t going to be hanging around Kirkwall for much longer. She was going to blow out of the city on the next ship. She was going to leave the Templars in her wake. She was going to _escape_. 

Once she came up with a plan.

Right.

A plan.

Void take her.

Hawke was grateful for the soft rasp of leather against the windowsill some indeterminate amount of time later. Friend or foe, it almost didn’t matter—anything was better than chasing her own thoughts around and around like Trouble after a hare.

“Just so you know,” Hawke said, moving up onto one arm, “whatever kind of scuffle you’ve got planned, I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh, precious,” Isabela tutted, pushing past the billowing white curtain and stepping toward the bed. She’d shed Hawke’s robe and staff somewhere along the way, and the candlelight painted shadows across her caramel skin. “That’s never stopped me before.”

She tucked a hand against her curvy hip and canted it, giving Hawke her best sultry stare. Her lips twitched in amusement.

Hawke snorted and flopped back amongst the pillows. “Fine,” she said, spreading her arms. “Go ahead and do your worst. I may as well take advantage of my time under the Chantry’s protection by being as sinful as I _possibly_ can.”

The mattress dipped as Isabela crawled into bed next to her. Their shoulders rubbed companionably together.

“Mm, speaking of taking _advantage_ ,” Isabela began.

Hawke cut her off. She loved Isabela more than reason, but her friend was nothing if not predictable. “Still a virgin, as far as I can tell,” she said dryly.

There was a pause, then Isabela rose up onto an elbow to look down at her. “All right, sweetheart, you’re going to have to explain that one,” she said. “Though it sounds delicious, so please be as detailed as you like.”

Hawke blinked up at her. “What?”

“Exactly. What? Or should I say _who_?”

“What do you mean _who_? You know very well who!” Isabela’s blank stare was…unexpected. “Isabela. What are you talking about?”

The pirate snorted. “ _I_ was talking about egging Andraste’s shiny gold-plated toes before we made our daring escape, but it sounds like you had something…or some _one_ …a lot more interesting on your mind. So, out with it, Hawke. You know there are no secrets between us.”

“There are plenty of secrets between us. You just make a point of ferreting them out.”

“ _Exactly_. And while you’re dishing, you may want to try to look less like a haystack.” Isabela looped a finger into a loose strand of Hawke’s long black hair and tugged. “If only to keep from scaring the nice smugglers Varric drummed up for you.”

Hawke obediently sat up, shaking out her snarled back hair. Sometimes talking to Isabela felt alarmingly like tossing oneself off a cliff and hoping for the best. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said, unwinding the messy tangle. She made a face as she dragged her fingers through her hair, pulling the heavy weight of it over one shoulder. “But I _assumed_ you were talking about Sebastian.”

Isabela quirked a brow. “Who?”

“Sebastian,” she repeated. Then, at Isabela’s blank look, “Sebastian Vael? The Chantry Brother? Prince of Starkhaven? Is none of this ringing any bells?” Isabela just lifted a shoulder indolently, clever fingers beginning to pick at strands of gold embroidery stitched into the coverlet. “Oh for Andraste’s sake, Isabela, you were _there_ when we all went after the Harimanns.”

“Did we find any good treasure?”

“ _Isabela_.”

“I take that as a no. Well, in that case, I don’t know who the bollocks you’re talking about. Though, prince _and_ Chantry Brother?” Isabela waggled dark brows. “Sounds too tempting for words. What does he look like?”

 _Varric_ would remember Sebastian, Hawke was sure. Fenris certainly would. She pinched the bridge of her nose, suddenly wishing that someone else—anyone else—had come to her rescue. “Tall,” she said. “Brown hair. Darker skin. _Very_ blue eyes. Improbably white armor.” Isabela hummed in appreciation. “He uses a bow. Has a nice voice? He wears a, um,” Hawke gestured vaguely toward her own waist, “buckle with Andraste’s face about—”

Isabela sat up with a delighted laugh. “ _Oh_!” she said, snapping her fingers. “Andraste-crotch! Yes, yes, I definitely remember _him_.”

“…you call Sebastian Vael Andraste-crotch? Wait, Hawke, remember who you’re talking to: _Of course_ you call Sebastian Vael Andraste-crotch.”

“It’s his fault, really. So he’s still a virgin, you say? Hm, well, you weren’t here very long.” Isabela rolled off the bed and headed toward the long table with its washbasin.

Hawke finished untangling the worst of the snarls and quickly rebraided her hair. “Yes,” she said, watching the deliberate sway of Isabela’s hips with a crooked smile. “ _If only_ I had the full forty days. So I take it you have a plan?”

“Sweetheart,” Isabela said, “I always have a plan. Did he do this?” she added, poking at the careful line of Hawke’s treasures.

 _Great_ , Hawke thought, slipping out of bed carefully, one hand gripping the wooden post to keep her from crumpling to the floor. _More guilt_. “Yes,” she said a little too sharply. “Your plan?”

Isabela glanced over her shoulder, brows lifting. She didn’t say anything, however, one hand reaching down to snag a vial from her pouch. “First, you drink this,” she said, tossing it over. Hawke caught it neatly, unstoppering it with her teeth. She spat the cork to the ground and swallowed the potion in one smooth motion, just as if she had been in the middle of battle.

The shiver of healing energy, of renewed strength, washed over her in a soothing downpour.

“Anders sends his love,” Isabela added. “Or he would if he wasn’t all snarly. And before you ask, he’s fine. I don’t know how she managed it—apparently, neither does he—but Merrill bundled him up and dragged him deep into Darktown when he would have come storming up all blue and glowing to save you.”

Hawke bit down on the impulse to chuck the vial, suddenly needing to break something, and instead carefully set it aside. Then she sighed and stooped to pick up the stopper, placing it next to the glass. The last thing she needed was to feel guilty for leaving (more of a) mess for the Prince of bloody Starkhaven to clean up after her. Her thoughts were already a tangle in that regard. “Sebastian mentioned that the rest of you managed to escape,” she said, crouching to unwind the no longer necessary elfroot-soaked bandage twining up her leg. Isabela was re-packing Hawke’s bag, nosily poking through each sentimental treasure as she did so. “What happened to you guys?”

“Not much. We managed to scatter the lot of them without any trouble. I lost my Templars after only a few minutes and circled around to our meeting place. Everyone else had a similar story. It wasn’t until you didn’t show that we began to worry.” Isabela passed the bag over to Hawke. “And with good reason, it turns out. Hey,” she added, reaching out to lightly cup Hawke’s chin. Their eyes met, hazel to blue, and held. Isabela’s expression was as serious as Hawke had ever seen it. “They really worked you over, didn’t they? Once we get you safely out of here, we’re going to raze the bloody Templars to the ground.”

Andraste’s grace, she had the best friends. Hawke smiled and reached up, fingers curling lightly around Isabela’s wrist. She brushed her thumb along the warm skin, grateful and frightened and anxious and…and _lost_ at the idea of leaving so much behind. “You’re starting to sound like Anders,” she murmured.

Isabela snorted and let her hand drop. “Don’t you dare, Hawke. Now move your arse—we’ve got a lot of ground to cover before it gets light enough for the tinskirts to spot us. You can tell me exactly what went wrong on the way.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Hawke teased, saluting. She followed Isabela to the window, feeling energized and capable with the potion running through her bloodstream. She’d have to leave her staff behind—there was no telling where Sebastian may have hidden it to try to keep his trapped mage from practicing sinful apostate spellcraft in the Maker’s own house—but there were always others. There was a world of possibility open up to her.

 _You’re forgetting something important._ Hawke shivered at the whisper of thought and tried to shove it away.

She followed Isabela through the open window, sparing one last look over her shoulder. The candle was burning low and soon would snuff itself out. The vial and folded bandage lay in a neat pile on the unmade bed. Fenris’s cracked bottle of wine remained carefully balanced in the basin, too delicate to take along. She spotted a few long, dark hairs on the pillowcase. All around, there were little bits and pieces of her for Sebastian to find in place of a goodbye.

They weren’t friends, Hawke reminded herself, swinging her leg over the ledge and dropping lightly to the roof below. She didn’t owe him anything.

Except…except that wasn’t quite true, was it? She _was_ forgetting something very, very important.

“’Bela,” Hawke murmured, hurrying across the tiles to catch up with her friend. It was the darkest hour of morning, still a few bells before even the hardest-working laborer woke. This high up, Hawke could see across the entire length and breadth of the city. She moved carefully over the tiles, heading away from the main Chantry entrance and toward one of its dormitory wings. Even if Meredith had already dispatched her Templars, they wouldn’t be able to spot the two of them up here. “Do you know anything about being granted sanctuary?”

Isabela glanced over her shoulder before dropping her gaze back to the roof. Even she had to be careful of her footing up here. “Is that what happened? I hadn’t realized old Elthina was likely to get off her arse and pick a side. The way Anders tells it—and tells it and tells it—the Grand Cleric takes neutrality to a criminal degree.”

“She wouldn’t have,” Hawke admitted. “At least…I don’t think she would have. Granted sanctuary, I mean. Sebastian was there, though—”

“Good old Andraste-crotch.”

“—and he…vouched for me. Do you know what all’s entailed in that?” Hawke paused, watching as Isabela gracefully leapt over the gap between the main Chantry and the right-most dormitory wing. It was a long, long fall to the cobblestones below. Hawke tested her balance, shifting her stance before taking a deep breath and jumping. She landed heavily but easily enough, arms thrust out wide to steady herself.

There would have been no way she’d have been able to get this far without Anders’ potion. She’d have to thank him later…if she ever saw him again.

“Maker. As I was saying…vouching? Do you know anything about that?”

Isabela hummed a negative, picking her way across the steeply sloping roof.

Hawke carefully followed, one arm still outflung. A wind blew across the sea, sending her ragged robes billowing around her legs. The smell of salt and fish was strong, even in Hightown. “Do you figure it’s just ceremonial?” Hawke persisted. “So when the Templars realize I’m gone, he’ll get a— A light slap on the wrist and maybe a stern talking-to from the Grand Cleric and that’s all? Or do you think there could be more to it?”

_For so long as she remains under our protection, I will vouch for the actions of Serra Hawke._

“Sweetheart,” Isabela said, “does it really matter? Whatever happens to Andraste-crotch, you’ll be leagues away before they even realize you’ve gone.”

Hawke stopped, one foot planted on a peaked gable. “That’s just it, though,” she said. “I’ll be leagues away and he could be held responsible. He vouched for my actions. Maybe they’ll just scowl and shake their swords at him. Or maybe—”

She closed her eyes, remembering the furious look on Ser Mettin’s face. 

“Or maybe,” Hawke said slowly, “whatever they would have done to me, they’ll do to him instead.”

Soft hands gripped Hawke’s shoulders. Hawke leaned instinctively into the touch. “You don’t know that will happen,” Isabela said quietly.

Hawke looked up. “Exactly,” she said. “I don’t _know_.”

“You don’t owe him anything.”

She had to break away, gently knocking aside Isabela’s hands. “That’s not true,” Hawke protested, and it felt strangely _good_ to let it all come tumbling out—all the guilt, the worry. “I’d be dead, or worse, right now if Sebastian hadn’t stepped in. If he hadn’t spoken for me and made the Grand Cleric take action. I owe him everything. At the very least, I owe him an explanation—and I owe myself the peace of knowing I didn’t just send him to swinging in my place.”

Isabela let out a harsh hiss of air. “You’re too soft for your own good, Hawke,” she scolded, even as Hawke carefully pulled the strap of her bag off her shoulder and set it across Isabela’s. “I’ve told you that time and time again.”

“I know; you have,” Hawke said. “I’ll never learn. He’s got to be in one of these rooms,” she added, glancing down. “The Sisters have the left wing. So I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Poke your head in through every window until you find him? Ask him to give you his blessings to run off—and oh, pretty please don’t turn you in now that he knows you’re ready to make a break for it?”

He already knew as much, and he hadn’t turned her in. She’d told him, trusting he wouldn’t. She supposed maybe, after all, that in itself was a sign of friendship. That trust. He deserved to be able to trust that she wouldn’t let him take the fall for her. “I have to know, Isabela. One way or the other—I _have_ to. So. I’ll…see you?”

Isabela sighed and gestured broadly. “You’ll see me,” she said. “I’m not going to let you hang yourself with your own _ill-timed_ sense of chivalry. I’ll come back to spring you.”

“There may be more guards next time,” Hawke warned. “Meredith isn’t going to take this lying down.”

“Meredith can piss into the void for all I care. Besides, tussling with a few tinskirts could be fun. Now go on and start peeping in on sleeping Chantry brothers,” Isabela added, shooing Hawke. “I suddenly need a stiff drink.”

Hawke grinned and turned away, then turned back and pulled Isabela into a fierce embrace. Isabela huffed in a breath, trying to sound _very_ put-upon, but her arms slid around Hawke and she hugged her back just as tight.

The sea. Isabela smelled like musk, and ale, and the sea. “Thank you,” Hawke murmured against her friend’s hair before pulling back. Isabela offered her a suspiciously shaky smile before turning and running across the roof with a thief’s grace, dropping down onto a lower level and disappearing into the darkness.

Hawke sighed and looked across at the sinking moon, then down at the tiles beneath her feet. Right. Okay. It couldn’t be that difficult to find Sebastian Vael amongst the rest of the Chantry brothers, could it?

As it turned out, finding one Brother’s cell amongst a whole floor of identical cells by poking her head in through their windows _while clinging to dear life to the ledge_ was not as easy as Hawke may have hoped. She was starting to despair of ever finding him when she leaned over yet another windowsill and peered into a cramped, dark cell…and spotted her staff propped in a corner.

She was so startled she nearly slipped and fell to the street below. Hawke hissed in a breath and dug her fingers into the stone, bracing herself against the ledge. Once she was certain of her balance again, she leaned forward and crawled in through the open windowframe—no glass for the Brothers; maybe they filled their minds with Andraster’s holy fire to keep their tender bits warm at night—stepping into Sebastian’s cell. It was tiny. Bare. A single small cot, a single chair, a small wooden trunk. There was no door in the doorframe. There was nothing on the wall and no rugs to warm the floor.

Hawke wrinkled her nose, casting a quick look toward the dark doorway, then stepped closer to Sebastian’s bed. She could just make out his features in the dark. His hair still fell into his brow, making him look softer, younger. His lips were parted in sleep. His lashes made two dark fans against his cheek.

He was so beautiful, in sleep. Serene.

And somehow still so very, very sad.

Hawke wet her lips and crouched next to the small cot. He wore a single blanket bunched up around his waist and a simple homespun shirt unlaced at the throat. His breaths came in steady, even gusts. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, suddenly nervous as she reached out, hesitated.

Then brought one hand over his mouth—she didn’t want him to yell in surprise and wake the entire Chantry.

“Sebas—” Hawke began in a whisper. Before she could finish, before she could even hiss in a surprised breath, the whole world was snatched up and flipped upside down. Sebastian’s eyes snapped open and he was moving _fast_ , one strong hand grabbing her wrist, the other at her throat. She gasped, trying to pull back, too shocked to cry out as Sebastian flipped her to the ground, rolling gracefully and—

Pinning her. His knees dug into her thighs where he straddled her hips. His grip was iron-tight.

“I may not be armed,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep yet still _chilling_. “But by all that is holy, you will not find me easy prey. Who s—”

Then he blinked, as if finally realizing who he had pinned so snugly against the freezing cold floor. “ _Hawke_?” he said, astounded. The grip around her throat immediately loosened.

Hawke coughed, heat suffusing her body. She could _feel_ herself blushing, Maker take her. “Ah, hello,” Hawke murmured. “So, this didn’t go quite the way I had planned.”


	7. Chapter 7

This, Hawke decided, all would have been hysterical if her ego hadn’t been so thoroughly bruised. She wasn’t used to anyone getting the jump on her. She was usually better than that.

Sebastian, it seemed, was just one surprise after another.

“Hawke, what are you doing here?” Sebastian was still straddling her waist, though he’d sat back enough to let her rise up onto her elbows. His legs were bare beneath the hem of his coarsely-spun shirt, the long expanse of tanned skin answering a question Hawke hadn’t been willing to admit—even to herself—that she’d been pondering.

“Well, I didn’t come for a sneak peak of your _Chantry Brother_ ,” she said, blowing back a loose strand of hair. “So you may want to tuck him away before things get awkward.”

Dark brows knit in confusion—and then his eyes went _wide_ as he puzzled out her meaning. “By the Maker,” Sebastian breathed, scrambling off her in a sudden ungainly tangle of limbs. He grabbed for the discarded blanket and wrapped it around his hips sarong-style, flush spreading. The ends trailed across the cold stone floor and his cheeks were so red he was almost glowing in the dim.

Good. That put them on more even footing, at least.

“I am so, so very—” Sebastian began, eyes locked on his feet as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy the show,” Hawke interrupted. She sat up. “But that’s not what I’m here for.”

Sebastian ran his fingers through his hair. His hand was shaking. “What _are_ you here for? Other than your usual special brand of torment,” he added, sotto.

Hawke perked up at that, grin slowly spreading. Now this was much better than a flustered apology. Sebastian looked so serious and put-together all the time; it was nice to see him knocked so completely out of sorts, wearing a makeshift skirt and _snarking_ at her. “If this is what I get for tumbling you out of bed,” she said, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her drawn-up knees, “I’m going to have to get the jump on you more often.”

Sebastian turned sharply, mouth open in protest. She grinned up at him sunnily.

He sighed and sank down onto the edge of his cot, careful to keep the ends of the blanket from drifting apart. “Sometimes I think Fenris may have the right of it,” Sebastian said. His lips were curving into the beginnings of a shy smile. “You really _are_ a demon, Hawke.”

“Nice try, but Sassy doesn’t have the same ring as Desire.”

“But you do admit that you go out of your way to vex people?” _Vex me_ , he may as well have said.

She hummed a low agreement. There was no point _denying_ it. “I like to think it is one of my many and varied charms,” Hawke said. “Though I’ll admit, that wasn’t my goal tonight. So consider this my heartfelt apology for putting you out of sorts.”

Sebastian rested his elbows against his knees, hands clasped loosely as he studied her. It really was something of a revelation seeing him this way, she realized. Sebastian had always seemed a little too perfect, a little too untouchable. Hawke was much more comfortable with the rough-and-tumble rogues and thieves and smugglers she’d spent a year of her life cultivating friendships with. The Hanged Man was a second home to her; Sebastian would stand out worse than Aveline there, too rich and too fine by half to be rubbing elbows with the rest of them.

But now… Well, now he looked almost human. Younger and more approachable than she’d ever seen him. Careworn in a way that made her often-regretted protective instincts ruffle in response.

She could see herself talking to _this_ man for more than a few snatches at a time. Not Sebastian Vael, Chantry Brother; not Sebastian Vael, prince of Starkhaven. Not good old Andraste-crotch. _This_ man, sitting with his hair a mess and a blanket tied around his waist, mussed and imperfect and so strangely fragile about the edges.

And, Maker take her, he was talking while she just sat there staring at him like a dimwitted calf. _Brilliant, Hawke. Just brilliant_.

“…to assume you came to say goodbye?”

She quickly tried to remember whatever he had been saying before, scrambling to piece the fragments together. “Ah, no. Well, yes,” she amended. “In a sense. I was sneaking out across the rooftops and thought I should pop in to chat.”

Sebastian’s lips curved into a wry half-smile. “Of course you were. You’ll be needing this, then,” he added, standing. Hawke watched with undisguised curiosity as Sebastian skirted around her and reached for her staff. He didn’t hesitate to lift it, strong, sun-browned fingers curling about the wood with a casual acceptance that frankly shocked her. When he turned it in his hands, tipping the point toward himself, the base toward her, she felt a strange sort of thrill go up her spine.

 _I need to stop underestimating this man_ , she mused, reaching out to wrap her fingers around the base. She looked up to meet his eyes, almost eerily blue in the dim. For an instant, they froze there, each holding an end of the staff, connected through the heavily carved wood and thrum of spirit magic. He wouldn’t feel the spark of mana—no, of course he wouldn’t; she was being fanciful—but for an instant, it was almost as if…

Well.

No, there wasn’t any point in even finishing that thought.

“Thank you,” Hawke murmured when Sebastian let go. She turned the staff so it lay across her legs as he took his seat again, her palms rubbing absently up and down the shaft. The familiar thrum of energy lit her blood and made her shiver. She felt safer, somehow, with it back in hand.

“You are welcome, Hawke,” he said, a formal note to his voice. “It was…the least I could do.”

She flicked her thumb against a groove in the wood. “Liar,” she said. “The _least_ you could do was nothing. This isn’t nothing. What you did earlier today wasn’t nothing.”

“You would have done the same for me.”

Hawke curled her fingers tight, feeling a coil of unease low in her belly. She hated being wrong. She hated being unjust even more, and she had to admit that she’d been both of these things, in spades, when it came to Sebastian. “That’s true now,” she agreed finally, ticking her gaze up to watch him through her lashes. “I suppose that’s why I’m here.”

Sebastian looked away. She could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “ _Is_ this goodbye, then?”

Carefully, deliberately, Hawke set aside her staff. She rose up onto her knees, her long black braid swinging as she leaned forward and broke the distance between them. Sebastian gave a little start when her hand closed over his, his eyes dropping to her face.

He didn’t pull away; she didn’t advance. It was a start, at least. “I’m sorry about what I said,” Hawke murmured. “I was trying to hurt you.”

Sebastian began to pull back. “Hawke—”

“No,” she interrupted, grip tightening. “You don’t get to be all noble and chivalrous when I’ve been an arse, all right? I haven’t given you a fair shot, and I haven’t been— Well, I suppose I haven’t been paying attention the way I ought. So.” She shook his arm lightly, awkwardly fumbling her way through a heartfelt declaration. Maker, she was bad at this. “Take my apology and know that no matter what kind of a tit I am, I _am_ your friend. I care about what happens to you.”

“And I care about what happens to you,” he murmured. His cheeks were flushed with color again, but his eyes and voice were remarkably steady.

Hawke cleared her throat and pulled away. Her heart was tripping alarmingly fast in her chest; what was _wrong_ with her? “Right, good,” she said. “So. Now that we’ve gotten that straightened out, I need you to tell me what kind of trouble you’ve put yourself into on my account.”

“Ah…pardon?”

“Vouching,” Hawke clarified. She absently, anxiously curled her fingers in the end of her long braid. She’d never been very good at these serious conversations. Bethany had always been the Hawke with the kindest heart and the sweetest temper. _She_ knew how to read people, to put them at ease without the crutch of a joke or a jab. _She_ would probably have been able to interpret the strange expression that flickered across Sebastian’s face before he very deliberately smoothed it away into a polite mask. “Before I run off into the sunset, I, well. I wanted to know about this whole vouching business. What does it mean for you?”

Sebastian cleared his throat, then rubbed the back of his neck. He shifted on the tiny cot. “Nothing,” he said. “It is more ceremonial than anything.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Don’t ever play cards with Varric or Isabela. You have more tells than Merrill.”

“Hawke—”

“I’m going to rudely interrupt you again,” Hawke rudely interrupted, “because I’m on a timetable and I really need to get to the bottom of this before the sun starts to come up. So. Sebastian Vael. I want you to look me in the eyes,” she pressed her hands to either side of his hips, rising up so her stomach pressed against his knees. This close, she could smell the warm, clean scent of him. “And tell me the _truth_. What would it mean for you if the Templars came ‘round in a few hours and I wasn’t there?”

His lashes flickered and his lips parted. She was so close now, she could see the bits of green in his eyes, turning them more aqua than her own bright blue. “Sebastian,” she said quietly. “Remember the part where we’re friends now? How do you think I would feel if I made my escape only to hear later that you were punished for it?”

He seemed to crumble at that, defeated by his own empathy. “They can’t make me Tranquil,” Sebastian murmured. “No matter what else, that is a threat they hold over _you_ , not me.”

“But they can—they would—do something else?” Hawke pressed. She felt the strangest, _strongest_ desire to reach up and cup his chin. “Sebastian, you owe me the truth of this. What would the Templars do to you? Meredith. What would _Meredith_ do?”

 _Andraste take me_. Hawke gave in to temptation, reaching up to cup one of his cheeks. It was warm against her fingertips, stubble scraping the meat of her palm. Sebastian jerked to stare at her, breath catching, and the flare of shocked _heat_ in his eyes sparked an answering awareness she was neither ready nor willing to accept. Hawke wet her lips and sat back on her heels, quickly letting him go—but she kept her eyes trained on his, brows arched in question. His lips had parted and his breathing was audibly erratic. He looked so Maker-taken _conflicted_ and confused and turned about that she almost took pity on him. Instead, Hawke kept her mouth shut and waited him out, refusing to let him look away.

Finally, Sebastian cleared his throat. “They cannot make me Tranquil,” he said slowly, “but Meredith would be well within her rights to arrange for my arrest. The Viscount would be unable to intercede because legally I would be on par with an, ah. An escaped apostate.”

Hawke strangled an urge to curse.

“I don’t anticipate Meredith would have me executed,” he continued, and Hawke _did_ curse then, her hands clenching, “unless she thinks that threat would push the Grand Cleric into siding with her over Orsino.”

“And would she?” Hawke demanded. “If Meredith threatened you, would Her Grace give in?”

Sebastian spread his hands. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

Hawke rose unsteadily. She needed to be on her feet—needed to be _moving_. This had all suddenly become a hundred times more complicated than it had been just a few hours before. “So if I stay, Meredith will send the Templars after me. Or even if she didn’t, I’d have just forty days to make a choice between handing myself over or being banished—at which point, Meredith would _definitely_ send the Templars after me.”

“Perhaps,” Sebastian began to argue, but Hawke cut him off. “ _No_ ,” she said. “She would do it. She wouldn’t stand to be bested.”

She paced to the window, looking out across the city and the harbor. The Gallows was pale white and ghostly in the moonlight. The Circle was waiting there. She couldn’t let herself be taken; she would rather _die_. But she wasn’t going to relent without a bitter fight. 

And there was one solution they hadn’t explored.

“You could come with me,” Hawke said.

Sebastian let out an unsteady breath. She didn’t have to turn to know he’d bowed his head as if in prayer. “And we are back to you being a demon,” Sebastian said, too lightly. The cot creaked as he stood. “You know I won’t leave, Hawke.”

“Starkhaven—”

“Is doing fine without me. I cannot go until I know for certain whether it is my ambition or a true desire to help my people that drives me. Too many lives hang in the balance otherwise.”

Hawke rubbed at her brow. “Lives hang in the balance if you _stay_ ,” she said. At his silence, she amended, “Very well. _My_ life hangs in the balance. Because I damn well can’t run off and leave you to hang in my place.”

“Hawke,” Sebastian began to protest, but she turned, one hand lifted to silence him. “No,” she said. “And besides, it’s bigger than just us. Maker take me, I may not be a very good mage—I’m not Anders—but I can’t just blithely sit back and let Meredith use you as a chess piece to ensure Templar domination. Kirkwall would crack like a nut under the pressure and Maker alone knows what would happen. I can’t be the woman who selfishly let the whole Circle burn just to avoid the brand.”

They stood there for what felt like forever, frozen just a few paces apart. It may as well have been a mile. Hawke’s mind was running riot, turning over pieces one after the other.

She could run, alone; Sebastian would be used to force the Grand Cleric to side with the Templars over the mages. If Elthina did that, the Circle would suffer and the civil war Anders kept ranting about might finally come into play…with the mages on the clear losing side. If Elthina _didn’t_ , Sebastian would most likely die.

She could stay; Meredith would send her Templars after her even under the protection of the Grand Cleric’s Sanctuary. Or, even if Meredith did not, she would most certainly come after her in forty days no matter Hawke’s decision. By then, she would have had time to secure the city. There would be no escape.

Or she could run, with Sebastian…if his principles could be tricked into taking something of a holiday.

“I don’t give up easily,” Hawke murmured, eyes scanning Sebastian’s face. She was so Maker-damned tired. This wasn’t a battle she was prepared to fight tonight.

“I know,” Sebastian said. “I understand.”

She’d have to find a way to convince him. That was all there was to it. There weren’t any other _options_.

“Tomorrow.” Hawke ducked to pick up her staff, suddenly feeling older than her mumblemumble years. Andraste’s tits, had she really been hosting a party for her friends only a few hours before? “Expect me to begin lobbing all sorts of very moving arguments at you tomorrow.”

The small, crooked smile that touched his mouth was almost enough to make her smile in return. She wondered when she’d get a chance to see him like this again. “I look forward to it, Serrah Hawke,” Sebastian said.

Funny thing was, she actually believed he meant it.


	8. Chapter 8

Isabela was waiting when Hawke finally made it back to her room. But then, she probably should have been expecting that.

“So?” She was sprawled across the lavish bed, head pillowed on one fist, drinking the dregs of Fenris’s wine. The sweet scent of fermented grapes filled the air. “What did Andraste-crotch have to say? Or did a _woman_ appearing in his little cell frighten him into an early grave? Ooor,” Isabela added slyly, waggling her brows, “did you finally make a man out of the Chantry Brother?”

Hawke carefully set her staff in the corner, fingertips running over the smooth wood. It was good to have it nearby again; she always felt strangely naked without it. “Nothing quite so titillating as all that,” she said.

“Ooh, titillating.” There was a rustle of cloth as Isabela sat up, folding her legs beneath her. “I like the sound of that.”

She snorted, sparing her friend a wry look. “You _would_. Hussy.” Then Hawke sighed and rubbed her face before beginning to methodically unfasten her robe. “We just talked.”

“Talked. I see. So,” Isabela murmured, carefully setting the cracked (and mostly empty) bottle of wine aside, “unless you have some unusual ideas about streaking naked through the city on your grand escape, I’m assuming that your undressing means…?”

Robes, Hawke thought, were a damned nuisance. There were just so many hidden buttons. “It means I’m staying,” she confirmed. “I have to. I don’t have any other choice.”

She startled when a firm hand closed around her wrist; she hadn’t even heard Isabela _move_. Hawke tilted her head to meet dark eyes, narrowed in a fiercely serious expression so unlike Isabela’s usual playful leer that… Well, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “Iz,” she began.

Isabela’s grip tightened. “Here’s what I don’t get, Hawke,” she said. “How in the Void do you think I’m going to stand by and let you martyr yourself? You’re not staying here to get taken by the Templars. Not for some hopped-up holy boy we barely know; not for _anything_.”

“Isabela,” Hawke tried again.

“ _No_. I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you over the rooftops if I have to, Hawke—don’t think I won’t.”

“ _Isabela_.” She wrenched free of her friend’s grip only to reach up to clasp her shoulders. The other woman was scowling fiercely. “It isn’t what you think.”

Isabela crossed her arms over her ample bosom, one black brow arching defiantly. “Oh? So you’re _not_ staying prisoner out of some fucked up sense of loyalty to Sebastian Vael because it turns out that his vouching for your conduct means he’ll get the strap if you turn up missing?”

“Um. Well, actually, I suppose it really is what you think.” Isabela knocked her hands away with a disgusted noise, stalking toward the windows to peer out at the city far below. Hawke watched her go helplessly. “Look,” she pressed, “I know the lot of you don’t know him very well, but he’s a _good man_. He’s one of us. And I can’t just let him stick his neck out for me without trying to save his hide in return. It’s how I work.” She spread her hands and tried for a roguish grin. “It’s part of my ineffable charm.”

The curtains billowed in the salt-tinged breeze. Momentarily hidden by a veil of the finest white linen, Isabela seemed as distant and insubstantial as a ghost. “You’re not half as charming as you like to think,” she muttered beneath her breath as she knocked the cloth aside irritably. “All right. Tell me everything, but remember: I’ve still got half a mind to bundle you up and kidnap you for your own good.”

And she’d do it, too. Of that, Hawke had no doubt.

So she explained the situation in patient, meticulous detail, laying out the four corners of the trap she’d found herself in. Isabela listened with a cocked brow, seeming less than impressed. When Hawke had finished describing everything that had passed in detail—glossing over the unexpected surge of warmth she’d felt for the Starkhaven prince, because that really wasn’t any of Isabela’s business—she stroked her chin and said, “Mm, no, I still don’t buy any of this. It seems quite simple to me. You’re in danger; we get you out of Kirkwall. That’s it.”

“Andraste’s tits, Iz, have you been listening to me?” Hawke protested. “Trust me when I say it is _very complicated_. If I were to clear out of here, Sebastian would be held responsible.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t bloody well seem fair to me. Maybe they can’t make him Tranquil, thank the Maker, but Meredith could still threaten to execute him.”

“And?”

Hawke heaved a frustrated breath, yanking at her half-open robe’s remaining buttons. She shoved the dirty, torn cloth off her shoulders, shimmying until it puddled at her feet. “And either an innocent man is killed _or_ the Grand Cleric makes a deal to stay his execution and Meredith gains a powerful political ally.”

“And?”

She ducked to grab her robes, throwing the bundle at Isabela’s head. The pirate batted them away absently. “ _And_ that would be bloody bad, okay? If Elthina sides with Meredith, the Templars will have immeasurable control over the city. We may as well wrap it up in a bow and hand it over.”

“And if she doesn’t,” Isabela said, “you’ll feel bad for getting Andraste-crotch killed.”

“And if she doesn’t, I’ll feel _horrible_ for getting Andraste-crotch killed.” Hawke kicked off her shoes irritably and moved to pull down the covers again. She didn’t know how many hours she’d been unconscious earlier, but that didn’t seem to matter—despite the healing potion taking away the worst of her injuries, she was exhausted.

Or maybe she just wanted to pull the covers up over her head and pretend like this whole nightmare didn’t exist. Either way, she sighed as she sank into bed, curling up on her side in her smalls to watch her best friend pace by the windows.

Isabela’s expression was a grim mask, her brows drawn, her lips pursed. She had her hands resting on her knives as if she were about to whip them out at any moment and begin hacking away at invisible foes.

“Iz,” Hawke began quietly, but Isabela gestured sharply and she fell quiet.

Finally, after several long minutes, Isabela moved to the bed. She pressed her palms against the mattress and leaned in, studying Hawke’s face. “All right, Kitten,” she said. “So what you’re saying is that if you leave with me now—which, by the way, it would have to be _now_ or we’ll be caught by the dawn—you’ll be safe and alive and living free as a bird…but your friend Andraste-crotch would likely either be killed or be used as a political pawn.”

“Right,” Hawke said, slowly sitting up. She didn’t trust the gleam in Isabela’s eyes.

“So it really is just your misplaced sense of chivalry keeping you here.”

She blew out a breath. “It really is a little more complicated than—”

“And this Chantry brother is what’s mucking up the whole thing.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, but—”

Isabela barreled on. “So if I slipped into his room and slit his throat…”

The sudden shock of fury and terror was unexpectedly fierce. Hawke jerked forward, grabbing Isabela’s arm. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” she hissed, sparks flaring between them.

Isabela simply smiled and patted her cheek. “It really _is_ more complicated than that, isn’t it? I thought as much.”

Hawke shoved her away. “I could set you on fire _right now_ ,” she muttered. “Gladly.”

“Temper. All right, so killing the Andraste-crotch isn’t the way we’re going to fix this. What if he asked you to go?”

Her blood was still singing with the unexpected surge of adrenaline. Hawke rubbed her fingers together, glowering at Isabela. She couldn’t tell if she really _had_ been joking—that was the worst of it. Isabela was impossible to read when she didn’t want her thoughts known. “Sebastian already _has_ asked. He wants me to go.”

Black brows arched sharply. “Oh really?”

Hawke flopped back against the pillows irritably. “Oh _really_ ,” she snapped. “Some people really are that void-taken good.”

“… _two_ bloody martyrs. No, Anders makes three.” The mattress shifted as Isabela sank down next to her. “And I assume you asked him to come with you?” Hawke made a rude gesture and Isabela laughed. “Just checking. I could kidnap him?”

Hawke turned her face to press her cheek against the pillow. Isabela had the end of Hawke’s long black braid between her fingers, steadily unworking the silky strands and untangling the worst of what the wind had blown free. “Tempting,” Hawke admitted, “but I can’t do that to him. Maybe if he was awful or obnoxious or… Or not so bloody _nice_. I can’t let you kidnap someone who’s so bloody _nice_ , Isabela. _Noble_.” She grabbed the spare pillow and pulled it over her face, groaning. “Ugh, what is wrong with me? One day stuck in the Chantry and I’m already going soft in the head.”

Her friend plucked the pillow from her hands and tossed it toward the foot of the bed. “You always were a little soft in the head,” she said. “ _And_ , I hate to say it, but you have absolutely terrible taste in friends.”

“Says the worst of the lot,” Hawke muttered.

“Says the worst of the lot,” Isabela agreed. “Well, then, the way I see it, if you’re not going to let me kidnap you, and you’re not going to let me kidnap him, and you’re not going to let me slit his throat to spare you the guilt, then there’s really only one option left.”

Hawke sighed and closed her eyes. “I am all ears.”

“You’re just going to have to seduce him.”

“You know,” Hawke muttered, “you could at least try to be helpful.”

Isabela tugged sharply at her hair. “I _am_ being helpful; I’m serious, Hawke.”

There was a long silence. Hawke peeked open an eye, then the other, blinking up into Isabela’s face. She slowly rose up onto her elbow. Isabela looked…well, Isabela looked saucily bemused, but that was her default expression. She wasn’t smirking, however, which meant— “Wait. You really are serious.”

“As a Qunari. Brr.”

“But. That. _What_?”

Isabela spread her hands wide. “Andraste-crotch is being stubborn about leaving his blessed Chantry. All right, fine. So you make him _want_ to leave the Chantry. Flash a little bit of what the Maker gave you, make some suggestive remarks, sway your hips in that way that drives the boys mad—and hey, tumble him while you’re at it. Why not? He looks like he could use a few decades’ worth of unwinding. And then when you crook your finger, he’ll follow you happily out of Kirkwall. Problem solved.”

Her temples were beginning to pound. Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose, moving to rest her elbows on her knees. She was a simple country apostate. And yet somewhere along the way, this had become her life; how had that happened? “Men aren’t dogs, Isabela.”

“Mm, you really don’t know the right men.”

“Andraste’s tits.”

Isabela’s fingers were so incredibly gentle as she brushed back Hawke’s hair, tucking it behind her ears. “I know that’s not how you fight, Kitten,” she said, voice dropping lower. “It’s certainly not how you think—more’s the pity. But I think you’ll find that it’s the only argument you’re going to have any luck with, in the long run. And honestly?” She chucked Hawke playfully under the chin. “You don’t have _time_ to try to talk him around the old-fashioned way.”

“I can’t do that, Iz,” Hawke protested. “It seems so…underhanded.”

“It _is_ underhanded. That’s the beauty of it!” Isabela sighed and nudged Hawke back until she was sprawled amongst the pillows again. “Oh, _fine_ ,” she said, crawling to curl up along the curve of Hawke’s body. “You can tell him your ulterior motives at the start. Then you can’t feel guilty when he falls for it. Problem solved.” Isabela rested her cheek against Hawke’s shoulder and tucked her knees up.

Sliding an arm around Isabela’s waist, Hawke couldn’t help but imagine—only for an instant—what it would be like to wield her sexuality in that way. She knew she was an attractive woman; she knew men sometimes wanted her. But she’d never seen it as a tool the way Isabela obviously did.

It was…underhanded, yes. Demeaning, too. But she couldn’t deny that there was some small part of her that…saw the appeal. And she certainly couldn’t deny that Sebastian himself was very, _very_ appealing. He was earnest and secretly a little snarky and good and warm and intelligent and—

She flicked her gaze up to meet Isabela’s. The pirate’s dark eyes were _dancing_. “Ooh, you’re thinking about it,” she crowed.

Hawke punched her shoulder and rolled away with a disgusted noise.

“Oh, you like this idea. You want to do it. You want it _bad_ , Kitten.”

“I hate you,” she growled.

Isabela, as usual, didn’t know when to stop. “I _know_ you. You’re going to try to bludgeon him with logic for a day or two, but then you’re going to try it my way. You’re practically salivating over the idea. You know,” she added thoughtfully, “maybe I should take a closer look at this Sebastian Vael. If he’s enough to get your panties in such a twist, maybe _I_ —”

Hawke smacked her friend across the face with a pillow and never felt more justified.


	9. Chapter 9

Sebastian spent a restless evening sitting at his windowsill staring out across the city he loved. The wind was cool as it blew in from the Waking Sea, ruffling his hair and sending shivers of gooseflesh down his arms, but he didn’t pull away or pace back to his cot or—

Or _abandon his post_. As silly as that thought may have been, he couldn’t seem to shake it.

 _I am your friend_ , she’d said, as easy as if those words hadn’t meant the world to him. _I care about what happens to you._

Maker’s grace.

His eyes drifted across the Chantry rooftops to Hawke’s window. He knew the church so well that he could pick it out even now, as the moon swung low and the night grew dark in the held breath just before sunrise. The window had been dark for hours, and he couldn’t be sure whether that meant she was sleeping or long gone. If he let himself have his preferences, she would be very, very far away by now—hair whipping free of a tangled black braid with each gust of wind that snapped the sails above her. Isabela perhaps by her side, or Varric, or any of the others; the last echo of gulls a dying memory as the ship raced far from the Free Marches and the terrible danger she found herself in.

They had come for her. Maker take them all, they had come for her.

He closed his fist, forcing himself to look away as the first light of dawn filled the sky. It faded the dark edges of night a deep violet, then rosy lavender and red and, finally, gold. Light kissed the white-crested waves and the specter of the Gallows just beyond the city proper. It spread across the alienage, the slums, the allies and tanneries and docks. Lowtown was already awake, he knew. It was the men and women in their fine manors who barred their windows against the light and slept through the morning.

The Templars were awake too. He could just make out the first rays of light winking up from their heavy plate. It took everything he had not to reach for his bow and…

 _No._ That wasn’t the answer here. Even if Marian… _Hawke_ …were still in the Chantry, even if she hadn’t left in the night as he prayed she had despite those parting words, violence would solve nothing. And if she _had_ gone, then Sebastian wanted to face his own end with a little more dignity than such a display would afford him.

But still, as he looked down and saw the Templars ringing the exits with their hands on their swords and the light of the Maker’s sun glinting off their shining plate, he couldn’t help but want to sweep down and spit his defiance in their faces. There was danger to be found in magic; he couldn’t deny that. But he had watched Hawke for some time; he had been able to do little else, his eye drawn to her as she swept across Kirkwall, bringing _hope_ to the people who tasted very little of mercy. She was no maleficar. She was no abomination.

She was a threat to the established order of this world, perhaps, but not in a way the Maker would condemn, and Sebastian was more than ready to stake his life on defending Marian Hawke’s particular brand of charity.

Whatever the Templars—Meredith—thought to do to him in retaliation.

“Blessed Andraste,” Sebastian murmured, eyes locked on those men; in his lap, his hands balled into loose fists. “Give me strength this day.”

Andraste did not answer…but then, even he had given up thinking that she might.

He stood at last, aware of the sun breaking across distant rooftops, and finally turned away from Marian’s empty window. Sebastian made himself go through the motions of his usual routine as if this day was like any other. He made his rumpled bed (not allowing himself to think of her tumbling him awake late the night before; certainly not allowing himself to remember how she’d felt beneath him, the dark spill of her hair, the shocked-wide blue of her eyes.) He industriously cleaned his aesthetic cell, then bathed himself with clean water left in a simply-hewn bucket just outside his door.

It was still strange, some days—cupping his hands and letting the water run over him. Kneeling on a stone floor in nothing but his smallclothes with rivulets tracing the planes of his body. Before, in what sometimes felt like another lifetime, he would have bathed in a silver tub before a fire. Scented oils would be scrubbed into his shoulders and fine soaps would have lathered his hair.

Instead, now, he bent low and dragged rough fingers through red-brown strands, working in a soap that stung his nostrils and made his eyes prick with moisture—but he smiled a little as he did it, feeling somehow a thousand times cleaner than one of those lavish soaks had ever made him.

Perhaps, he mused—washed clean, stray droplets tracking their way lazily down his body—that was because in the old days, he would have stepped out of that bath and left it for an army of servants to clean. Useless and pampered and nothing but a burden on everyone around him. Now, here, he stayed on his hands and knees and used the remaining water to scrub his floor _himself_ , muscles rippling as he put his back into the work. Lips curving at the edges despite his worry.

If he had a mirror, he would be able to meet his own eyes in it. Instead, he set the hard-bristled brush into the bucket and hung that on its hook on the wall, where it would wait to be filled again the following morning. Where he would fill it and others like it when his turn came again. He raked his fingers through his hair, sweeping it back from his eyes in the simple style he preferred, and then he began to dress.

Sebastian could hear his brothers moving within their own cells, a few murmuring the Chant as they bathed, cleaned, dressed. It _steadied_ him the way nothing else could, quieted the fear deep in his belly as he buckled on his breastplate, his greaves. The pounding of his heart seemed to trip along the same rhythms of those oh-so-familiar songs, and with the morning light streaming through his window and the Chantry bells beginning to peal the hour, he couldn’t help but think:

_She’s gone. She’s fled. Our friends could not possibly have been mad enough to let her stay._

That meant he was walking out there to his own death this morning, true…but it also meant his dream of Hawke at the prow of some ship, sailing far beyond the reach of Meredith and her corrupted Templars was _real_ , and that…

That was worth it.

Knowing Marian would live was _worth it_.

There was a soft rustle as the brothers began to sweep into the halls, moving as one toward the Chantry for early services. Sebastian stepped out amongst them, allowing himself to be carried like a leaf on a stream. They no longer cast his armor sideways looks, accustomed to the sight of him like a lark amongst pigeons. (He’d been tempted, in those first days after he left the church, to still dress like his brothers… _former_ brothers…but it had felt deceitful. He loved the Chantry more than anything, _owed_ it so much, and yet he had forsaken his vows. He didn’t have the right to wear the vestments any longer.)

 _And besides_ , Sebastian thought, veering left as the crowd merged with the sisters, funneling toward the inner sanctum, _the Maker knows your heart is not as pure as it should be._

But that…was perhaps too much truth for him to dwell on now.

Sebastian cleared his throat and fought back the urged to touch his hair, adjust his armor. _She’s gone_ , he reminded himself as he climbed the steps. His heart had begun to pound again, fluttering hummingbird-fast at his throat as he fixed his eyes on the door to the visiting dignitary’s suite. _She has to be gone._

He wanted that so much; he wanted to see her face again; he wanted her to be safe; he wanted to hear her voice.

He was a blighted fool was what he was, and he paused outside her door for what felt like an age trying to wrestle those conflicting feelings back into order. In the sanctum, voices began to rise in the Chant of Light. The song echoed, beautiful and familiar, and he pressed a palm against the cool wood of her door to feel its reverberations against his skin. 

“In your heart shall burn  
An unquenchable flame  
All-consuming, and never satisfied.  
From the Fade I crafted you,  
And to the Fade you shall return  
Each night in dreams  
That you may always remember me.”

Sebastian drew in a deep breath, lifted his hand to knock…and prayed.

_Be long gone from here; listen to the friends who love you more than you love yourself; do not have stayed for me, for the city, for anything. Please have changed your mind in the night and be long gone from here…_

There was a long beat, and Sebastian began to relax, breathing easier. …and then the door opened. Hawke stood in the gap, sleep-mussed black braid over one shoulder, brows arched over those beautiful, haunting eyes.

Sebastian let out a sharp huff of breath, body shocked-alive at the sight of her, and for the fraction of a second, he was _so very glad_ to see her one more time his knees nearly buckled. Then the reality of their situation came rushing back and he slapped a hand to the door and pushed it open, forcing Hawke to hop back a step to avoid its swing.

“Well, sure, come on in,” she said in that sarcastic drawl she reverted to more often than not, but Sebastian just stepped inside and let the door slam shut. Hawke jerked up her chin at the sound, visibly startled; _he_ was startled, too, and instantly contrite. But before he could apologize, Hawke was swinging into the offensive, getting up into his face with a bristling fury that had him responding in turn. “What, are you actually angry I’m still here? I _told_ you I was going to wait this out. I _told you_ I wasn’t going anywhere. Did you honestly expect I’d go against my word?”

Sebastian grit his teeth. “I thought perhaps you would have come to your senses in the night, yes. This is madness, Hawke. Even you should be able to see that. There will be no talking your way out of this if Meredith manages to get her hands on you.”

She scoffed. “I’ve been casting around this city since I got here. And I have saved a _lot_ of people with it, too. Sure, the whole…chased through the streets by Templars thing was a little unnerving—” Sebastian made a strangled noise at that, “— _but_ no one’s made a move on me since I got here, and I have over a month to swing things around. I’ve put some thought into it, and I’ve decided I can make this work.”

“Your silver tongue will not sway Knight Commander Meredith, Hawke.”

“Weeeeeeell,” she drawled. “To be honest, my silver tongue really only has to sway _you_.”

He hated the way his skin prickled at that, his heart skipping a full beat, his skin flushed. He hated how she could knock him off-balance with a teasing quirk of her distractingly full lips and an arched brow. “Hawke,” Sebastian said, trying to keep his voice steady, “you know I cannot leave Kirkwall.”

“And you know I’m going to abandon you,” she shot back.

“ _Well you bloody well should!_ ” It came out as a shout, sudden and _harsh_ enough to make her fall back a full step. She stared at him, eyes gone wide, lips parted. A sudden blush stained her cheeks, and Sebastian swallowed back the turbulent mass of worried anger with an unsteady breath, fighting to rein in the part of him that wanted to take hold of her shoulders and _shake her_.

(That wanted to cup her face and make her swear she would flee the first chance she got. Maker, it was dangerous to be near her alone for so long; always before, she had been in and out of his life. He wasn’t used to how _aware_ she made him feel.)

“Hawke,” Sebastian said after a measured breath, voice rough. “I apologize.”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, please, yell at me. I’ve never seen you so…discombobulated; I think I like it.”

He gave a soft chuff of a laugh, moving past her to the balcony. Sebastian pried open the lock with deft fingers and pushed open the doors, letting in a soft breeze tinged with the golden glow of sunrise. “You always do have a joke for every situation,” he murmured.

Hawke hesitated what felt like a very long time before padding up to join him. She moved to stand next to him on the balcony, hands closing around the wrought iron. He glanced at her when she deliberately bumped their shoulders together. “Who said I was joking?” she said.

He flushed. “ _Hawke_.”

“I told you I was going to try to convince you,” Hawke continued as if he hadn’t said anything. “Well, consider this my opening volley: run away with me, Sebastian.”

It was shameful how his heart lurched at those words. It was _sinful_. “Hawke,” he said, trying not to let his mind fill with images of what that would be like—fleeing Kirkwall with this impossible, brave, fierce woman; defying everything that had ever tried to shape him, claim him; living from one day to the next instead of being forced to constantly and carefully look ahead to foresee the consequences of his actions; being able to take what he wanted…and what he refused to admit to himself he desired just as desperately as he did?

It was a temptation worthy of any demon, and Sebastian had to close his eyes against it as he drew in another serrated breath.

“Run away,” Hawke said again. She shifted closer—close enough that he could feel her heat. She burned like a beacon. “You’re not a sworn brother anymore, Sebastian. There is nothing holding you here. You could come with me. We’d go to Ferelden or Antiva or Orlais. We’d see the Frostbacks or visit the shores of Nevarra. I could show you the village where I lived before the Blight. The little Chantry where I was welcomed to the Maker as a child.”

“Hawke…”

“We could do so much good together. I know I’ve underplayed your contributions in the past, but I— Maker, Sebastian, I’ll admit how much of a tit I’ve been when it comes to you. I had my eyes willfully closed because I just didn’t want to see who you really were.”

He blinked open his eyes, staring out across all of Kirkwall, to the sea; a ship very much like the one in his dreams was silhouetted against the horizon. 

“You’re a good person. A… A very good person. And I can’t just leave you behind, but if you _came with me_ , we could… I…”

“I care about the city,” Sebastian murmured, eyes fixed ahead. “I love it.”

Hawke sighed and slumped forward, resting her weight on her folded arms. “Yeah,” she said. “So do I.”

“I care about you.”

She looked up at that, startled, but he continued before she could begin to demur. “You _are_ a part of this city, Hawke. But you aren’t the only part. It will trip along quite well without you, I think, so long as you are somewhere safe. Having adventures, getting in trouble, inspiring a, a whole new group of unlikely friends.” He stared out at the brightening sky. “You are very much like the sun, you know; no matter where you are in the sky, you bring warmth to us all.”

Hawke let out a long, slow, uneven breath. “Sebastian,” she began, voice quavery.

He wouldn’t let her stop him now; he couldn’t. “But if you stay here and the Templars do take you—if the Knight-Commander’s corruption leads to you being made Tranquil—well.” Sebastian straightened, feeling her eyes on him like a touch. “None of us would survive without the sun in the sky, Marian.”

“But I’m not,” she said quietly. “I’m just an apostate from Ferelden with just as much bad luck as good.”

“It’s humbling,” Sebastian said, “that you can’t see just how astounding you are.” He turned away; this was veering far too close to a confession he wasn’t ready—would never be ready—to make. “The city will rebel if Meredith succeeds in making you Tranquil. Of that I have no doubt. The only threat we face should I be taken is Elthina swaying the balance of power…and if it will ease your mind, I promise you, I will not allow that to happen.”

He startled when she gave him a sudden _hard_ shove. “I’m not going to let you be a martyr for me,” Hawke snapped.

“And _I’m_ not going to let your bleeding heart be the death of you. Why does it even matter?” Sebastian added. “Two days ago, you would have laughed at the idea of calling me a friend.”

She bristled. “Two days ago, I was a bloody idiot, all right? I’ve already said as much; I’ve already said I…care. About you.” Hawke swallowed and turned away at the exact moment Sebastian had to lift his face toward the rising sun. The light burned his eyes, but it was easier to stare straight into its depths than to hear Hawke say _those words_.

Maker, his hands were shaking. He folded them against the pristine white of his armor and cleared his throat. “We won’t get anywhere by yelling at each other,” he said, trying to make the peace.

Hawke gave a breathless laugh. “Maybe not,” she agreed. “Though I do like seeing you lose your composure.”

Sebastian shot her a wry glance. Dark motes danced before his vision, swimming around her face like…well. Very much like the darkness threatening to swallow her whole. As metaphors went, he could have lived without that one. “You just like to vex me.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Outside her room, voices rose once more in song; he was missing service for the first time in years. “I should go,” Sebastian said, reluctantly pulling away. “But please, consider just what you’re risking by remaining. Templars have ringed the Chantry. Your opportunity for escape is dwindling by the hour.”

“ _You_ consider what I had to say,” Hawke countered. “I will convince you to come with me. I’ve got tricks up my sleeves the likes of which you’ve never seen. Probably.”

He didn’t want to imagine what those tricks would be. Well, no, that wasn’t quite true—he _wanted_ to imagine them very much, but he wasn’t going to allow himself. “No doubt Knight-Commander Meredith and the Viscount will arrive later in the morning to discuss the matter with the Grand Cleric,” Sebastian said, forcing his mind away from those dangerous, twisting paths. “Please be careful while they are here. There are only so many dramatics the Chantry sisters will tolerate.”

Her lips quirked. “Oh, you know me,” Hawke said.

“Yes,” Sebastian said with a laugh. “That’s the problem.” He inclined his head. “Hawke.”

“Sebastian,” she said, dipping into something very like a teasing curtsey.

Sebastian shook his head and turned to leave, carefully averting his eyes from her rumpled bed. The songs of the sisters and brothers called to him, the Chant of Light echoing through the chapel…but as he stepped out her door, he couldn’t seem to help casting a glance over his shoulder—one last look to take with him into prayer.

She stood at the balcony doors, eyes on him, lips parted, expression filled with so much familiar determination that he had had to bite back a smile. The rising sun framed her— _haloed_ her—catching in the black of her hair and making her skin glow with warmth. Inviting and beautiful and fierce and—

He turned his face away, cheeks hot. And as he hurried down to join the prayers of his once-brethren, he couldn’t help a single traitorous thought:

_She stayed; she stayed for me._


	10. Chapter 10

The next few hours—after she managed to banish the uncomfortably pleasant glow she felt in the wake of Sebastian’s obvious concern—found the heir of one of Kirkwall’s oldest and most dignified families laying on her stomach, sprawled across the hard marble of the promenade directly overlooking Elthina’s office. If she strained, she could just make out Meredith’s raised voice, though the Grand Cleric’s more measured tones were lost to her.

Damn and blast. If she could only get _closer_.

Hawke wriggled forward, long black braid dangling as she leaned precariously over the precipitous fall. She’d give anything for Isabela’s unnatural grace right about now; if the pirate were here, no doubt she’d be balanced like a spider just above the door, listening in through cracks in the plaster and overhearing the whole sorry mess. As it was, all Hawke was getting for her trouble was every fifth word, blood rushing steadily to her head, and a vicious cramp where cold marble bit into her stomach. She sighed. If only she could be _in there_. Meredith would be furious if she caught Hawke listening in, but at least she wouldn’t have to sit cooling her heels and hoping for the best. At least she’d be _doing_ something.

Hawke was half-tempted to swing down and take her chances, and had even begun to reach for a handy wall sconce when the scrape of soft leather against stone dragged her attention back to the promenade. One of the sisters paused on her way up the steps, eyes widening in visible shock. Hawke just waggled her brows and hooked her knees against the railing, dropping back as low as she dared, skirts billowing like a sail around her waist.

Subtlety and decorum had never been Marian Hawke’s finer points.

“—void-taken interference!” Meredith was shouting. There was a clank of armor and something that sounded suspiciously like smashed pottery. Maybe it was better she _wasn’t_ in there after all.

Elthina’s reply was muffled, but she swore she heard Sebastian’s voice raised above the clamor; his words were lost, but the anger in his tone was clear. It was enough to have her brows climbing, surprise and unexpected, unwelcome pleasure twisting sinuously in her gut. She couldn’t remember ever hearing him so angry before, not even when faced with the Harimanns. It was…gratifying to think he felt so strongly about her.

Hawke didn’t have time to consider it, however—in the next moment, the door slammed open and she had to scramble back with a muffled curse to keep from being seen. Meredith stalked out of the Grand Cleric’s office, armor shining in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. She was flanked by two of her Templars in full regalia. Several steps behind her came the Viscount, Orsino, Elthina…and Sebastian.

His cheeks were flushed and he looked ready to go for one of the knives strapped to the small of his back. Those incredible blue eyes were fixed on Meredith, and the way he stalked in her wake made Hawke whistle beneath her breath. She’d been pretty sure only Fenris could manage that level of fiercely controlled rage. It was…impressive, to say the least.

His gaze ticked up as if he could sense her eyes on him and Sebastian met her gaze; she was still hanging halfway over the edge of the promenade, braid dangling, robes tangled indecently around her thighs. Hawke flushed and flashed him the thumbs up. Sebastian blinked, then shook his head, expression melting into something soft and infinitely more approachable as he broke from the entourage and made his way to the precept stairs.

And that was her cue.

Hawke grabbed the railing and hoisted herself back up, careful not to flash any important bits as Meredith sailed out the huge Chantry doors. She spotted what looked like the entire city guard just past the main steps, but she turned her gaze away as Sebastian joined her.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Hawke said, leaning back on her palms. Blood was only now rushing back to where it belonged, but Sebastian looked more flushed than she felt. He cleared his throat and turned subtly away, craning his neck to stare fixedly up at the golden statue of Andraste as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. _Maker’s furry nutsack, what now?_

Oh. Oh, right.

Subtly, Hawke smoothed down her robes to hide her bare legs. Perhaps flashing enough thigh to make Isabela proud wasn’t the way to begin the conversation she’d been practicing in her head since all those sweetly-worded protests this morning. Then again…perhaps it was.

“You know,” she added, leaning forward to grab Sebastian’s hand. He startled, then tensed his muscles to help lift her to her feet. “If you’re waiting for me to be _decent_ before looking at me, I’m afraid you’re going to be waiting a very long time.”

“ _Hawke_ ,” Sebastian protested, finally meeting her eyes.

She crossed her arms. “ _Sebastian_.”

“…there’s nothing I can say that won’t end somewhere regrettable, is there?” The corners of his mouth twitched with the complaint, and Hawke found herself grinning in return.

“No,” she agreed brightly.

“ _Demon_.”

Hawke fluttered her lashes like a heroine in one of Varric’s blasted romances. “Does this mean you’re _tempted_ , Serrah Vael?”

 _That_ earned a sudden, breathless laugh; Sebastian quickly covered it with a cough, glancing down into the nave guiltily. Hawke leaned against the railing to get a good view of the sisters lighting candles for vespers. She cast them her best sunny smile and snorted when they quickly turned away. “I don’t think they like me.”

“They don’t know you.”

“They’re definitely afraid of me.”

Sebastian just shook his head. “Anyone with half the wits the Maker gave him is afraid of you, Hawke.”

“I’m flattered!”

“You’re deflecting. Were you listening in on the whole conversation?”

“Why?” she retorted. “Were you saying anything interesting?”

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder. The huge Chantry door was sliding shut. Sisters moved through the precept, not-so-subtly watching Hawke out of the corners of their eyes. She wondered how many of them had been bought by the Templars. The rest, she assumed, would fly to Elthina with the first bit of gossip they could manage.

Sebastian seemed to come to the same conclusion. He reached out to snag her elbow, tugging Hawke toward the north transept. “How much did you hear?” he murmured.

She kept close, head tilted toward his as they moved deeper into the church. There were storage rooms back here, tucked away behind cleverly hidden doors. Sebastian paused to pull one open, glancing once more over his shoulder before slipping inside. It was all very cloak and dagger, and the way he moved on silent feet was another—necessary—reminder that there were depths to Sebastian Vael so far left unplumbed. She knew the story of how he’d become such a good archer, but the rest? She’d taken his abilities for granted; Hawke made a mental note to ask who had taught him to move like an alley cut-purse when there weren’t more pressing things on her mind.

“Hawke?” He turned to study her. With his ridiculous white armor, Sebastian practically glowed in the dim—like some kind of bloody saint. He caught what little light there was, the surface of his breastplate pristine despite its constant wear and tear. She had _seen_ him hip-deep in slavers and giant spiders, and yet somehow Sebastian always managed to look so maddeningly _perfect_. It made a girl want to reach out and ruffle him, muss him, dirty him up.

“ _Hawke_? Is everything all right?”

She flushed when she realized she’d just been standing there, door hanging open, _staring_ at him like some kind of lackwit. She cleared her throat and pulled the door shut, leaning back against the worn wood. “I didn’t hear much,” she admitted, trying to force her thoughts back under control. “Mostly Meredith railing about _apostate this_ and _maleficar that_. There may have been one or two threats to overrun the Chantry and drag me out kicking and screaming.”

“One or two,” Sebastian agreed. “Meredith is…not well pleased that Her Grace has chosen to side with you.”

“But she hasn’t, has she?” At Sebastian’s cocked head, Hawke braced her palms against the door and pushed forward. The storage room was small; within four paces, she was pressing into his space, eyes scanning his earnest expression. “The Grand Cleric hasn’t sided with me—she’s sided with you.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. He may have been all put together again—with his shining armor and neatly brushed hair and perfect manners—but in that gesture, Hawke could see just a glimpse of the man from the night before. A glimpse of the man who’d leaned against her balcony and stared out wistfully across the sea. She was surrounded by the clean scent of him, was practically drowning in his eyes.

No. No, definitely not anything half so romantic as that. That was just Isabela putting thoughts into her head. She needed to snap out of it.

And yet: “ _You’re_ on my side,” Hawke murmured.

Sebastian didn’t even pause. “Of _course_ I am,” he said. “I told you: you are my friend. You are…important to me. I will always take your side, Hawke.”

 _It’s as if_ , Hawke mused dizzily, _with those words, he’s the one trying to seduce me and not the other way around._

“So here’s the thing,” she said. This close, she had to tip her face up to look at him. “Like I keep telling you, I’m not going to just go quietly. I’m not going to lay down and wait to see what happens in forty days—that isn’t who I am.”

“Of _course_ not,” he agreed. “Hawke, I can speak to Varric for you. We can arrange for—”

She held up a hand. “ _And_ I’m also not leaving you, so button it. We went over all this. So you may as well stow any talk of getting me out of here, because that’s not happening without you.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened unhappily, but he nodded, arms crossing. “We are at the same impasse as before; you know why I cannot leave here, Hawke.”

“No,” she said. “Or at least I don’t _understand it._ But I guess I don’t need to in order to talk you around. So, here’s the thing: Isabela suggested I seduce you into leaving with me.”

 _That_ was as effective as tossing a grenade into a knot of mercs. Sebastian straightened immediately, arms dropping to his sides, face flushing with color, eyes going _wide_. He actually took a step back as if she were going to bodily throw herself into his arms at any moment, and the panic that flashed across his face would have been hysterical if the situation hadn’t been so bloody serious.

Well. Okay. It was still a little hysterical.

“ _Hawke_ ,” Sebastian began, accent deepening; his voice pitched low and throaty, and the blush was creeping its way down his neck. “You wouldn’t.”

She offered her best wide, sunny grin. “Oh, I think we both know that I would.”

“You _couldn’t._ ”

“Could!”

He edged further away, and Hawke bit back a grin, watching him from beneath her lashes. She still wasn’t certain it was a great idea, but Isabela—damn the woman—had been right: there was a surprisingly large, _loud_ part of her that wanted this. She should probably examine that part of her, really try to understand her own motivations here…but fuck it, soul-searching had never really been her thing. Reckless impulsivity was more Marian Hawke’s style, and Sebastian had been consistently muddying the waters by being all…handsome and rumpled and sweet to her.

 _So, time to be reckless then_ , she thought. There was something endearing about the way Sebastian couldn’t seem to look at her. His eyes darted around the small room, touching on everything but her, and she had never seen him more flustered in all the time she’d known him. She wondered whether it was fear or desire that brought the color so high to his cheeks—or perhaps a combination of the two? She supposed there was one way to find out.

Hawke took a step closer and Sebastian stiffened, lifting his palms. “Hawke,” he said in a gentle—if husky—tone. A _reasonable_ tone, as if he were trying to talk sense into a madman. “This is— You are— _Hawke_ ,” he squawked again when she hooked her fingers in the collar of his fine white armor. He grabbed for her as if to tug her hand away…but he froze before he could touch her, as if he didn’t trust himself to make contact. His breathing had quickened. “Hawke, you have— Ah. You have had your fun at my expense,” Sebastian managed. “You wanted to set me off-kilter and it worked.”

She slid her other hand up the front of the pristine armor. It reflected her own face back, mirror-fine, and she couldn’t quite make herself meet her own dilated eyes. She couldn’t say why, but Maker, having Sebastian Vael caged between the wall and her body, having him flustered and mussed and gorgeously earnest… _did something_ to her. Made her hot and aching inside.

Made her want to keep _pushing_.

“I’m not joking, Sebastian,” Hawke murmured; her own voice came out in a low rasp, and Sebastian drew a shaken breath at the sound of it, practically flinching away as if her words had some immeasurable power over him. “I’m giving you forewarning because I don’t want this to be too underhanded…but I am, I am going to do this.” _I want to do this._

He caught her wrists gently and tried to break away, but Hawke just pressed in with all of her strength, keeping him caged. He probably could have forced her if he was willing to be rough, but she could read his reluctance in the tension on his face. He didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to match his rogue’s strength against her rough-and-tumble mage’s…and perhaps, _perhaps,_ some part of him didn’t really _want_ to break free.

_If wishes were horses, Marian, you’d never have to drag your arse up Sundermount again._

Sebastian was still protesting. “I’ve taken vows. I can’t— I have sworn to— I am promised to the _Maker_ , Hawke, and it does not matter how much I may want— I _cannot_ —”

The hard, unyielding surface of his armor felt shockingly good against the flushed give of her body. His hair was silky-soft when she slipped her fingers up into it, carding through the orderly waves. Sebastian sucked in a serrated breath, eyes dropping to hers. They were dilated wide, brilliant blue surrounding endless depths of black. His lips were parted on a breath.

He _shivered_ , on the brink, and all she’d done was touch him. Hawke let her eyes drop deliberately to his mouth and the noise he made shot through her sudden and hot as a firestorm. Maker, he was so responsive—an actual kiss might kill her. “You’re not a Chantry Brother anymore,” Hawke murmured, watching as he unconsciously wet his lips. They were perfectly formed—ridiculously pretty—the upper making a clearly delineated bow, the lower soft and full and perfect for biting. “You may still live here, but you left the Chantry some time back; you _know_ that’s true. You know you could give in if you wanted to.” She gripped his hair tighter, rocking up onto the balls of her feet, and void take her, the way the (tight, _tight_ ) peaks of her unbound breasts dragged along the surface of that ridiculous armor made everything inside her clench like a trembling fist.

She was _wet_. “Do you want to?” she murmured.

Sebastian cursed under his breath and briefly closed his eyes. She could feel him trembling against her, balancing on a knife’s edge… And then his hands slowly, slowly, slowly fell to her waist as he capitulated.

“Marian,” Sebastian murmured, eyes moving across her upturned face. Then, at her soft noise (because her name said in _that voice_ was somehow stronger than any spell she could have summoned) he pulled her in, fingers digging into her hips, rucking up material. He was trembling, _she_ was trembling—they were quaking together like a pair of untested children, aching dully with some unsatisfied want. “Void take you, you _are_ a demon. Who could possibly say no to you?”

 _Please_ , she almost said; or maybe, _no, I’m sorry, this is too much—I’m supposed to be the one in control_. She wasn’t supposed to be seduced by him. She wasn’t supposed to want him so much.

And yet when one of his hands lifted to tilt her face, she melted into the touch; when their eyes met, inches apart, she gave a breathless moan. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost control of her own plot to the untried prince…and it was growing so Maker-damned hard to bring herself to care.

Their eyes were locked together for what felt like forever; there was something terrifying and intimate and _important_ about the way she couldn’t, wouldn’t, look away. Something that went miles deeper than a simple seduction.

“Marian,” Sebastian said again, breathless, like a prayer. One hand came up to frame her face, as if she were endlessly precious to him; the sound that tore from her made her flush all over.

 _It’s not like that,_ she wanted to protest, heart fluttering madly in her chest as he pulled her more fully against him, as he lowered his head to hers. He was giving in to her seduction, but it wasn’t supposed to be _romantic_. She hadn’t intended… She didn’t want…

She couldn’t; she _wouldn’t._ She—

And then those perfect lips brushed hers, whisper-soft, and the whole world fell away.


	11. Chapter 11

He knew he was lost at the first kiss.

No. No, if Sebastian were being honest with himself (and he did try, at all times, to be unflinching about his own failings, even when they dug furrows into his conscience), he’d been lost long before now. Maybe from the very beginning, back when she’d first messily pushed her way into his life and made a mockery of the orderly peace he’d always taken such comfort in. There was something about Marian Hawke that drew even the most careful moth to her flame. She…

She _shone_. Burning-bright and laughing and bawdy and brilliant. Sebastian couldn’t imagine a more tempting false idol. And she was going to be the death of him.

 _I love you,_ he thought, feverishly digging his fingers into her thick, black hair. He dragged their mouths together with a moan, licked hungrily past her parted lips with a desperation she matched bit for bit. Their tongues twined hot and _slick_ , and the noise she made shivered its way down his spine and to his already-straining cock. He couldn’t remember ever being this hard; he couldn’t remember ever wanting this much. It pulsed through his blood, matched tempos with their desperate, biting kisses, and threatened to immolate him from the inside out. _I love you, I love you, I want you. I will always want you._

Impossible creature that she was.

 _Maker_ , she could drive him mad. Sebastian dropped an arm around Marian’s waist and heaved her against the cold shell of his breastplate, swallowing her low moan with a hungry growl. She was sinking against him so sweet and willing and _fierce_ it was all Sebastian could do not to pull her down to the cold stone floor and show her all the bawdy tricks he’d learned before the Chantry had made a pious man out of him. He wanted to strip the heavy robes from her shuddering body and hook long, pale legs over his shoulders. He wanted to leave sucking kisses along her inner thighs, to lick her open and ride the frantic buck of her hips as he swirled his tongue along the delicate hood of her clit. Maker, how she would come apart for him. He she would scream as he whispered against her slickslickslick flesh, curling his tongue in the most ardent of prayer.

“Sebastian,” she murmured, fantasy and reality blending together as she curled her fingers in pure white armor and arched close. Maker’s breath, what she did to him. Her breasts were pressed tight to the unforgiving curve of his cuirass and Marian’s hips pushed forward once, twice, in obvious invitation. She wanted it just as much as he did. She was _aching_.

The temptation to give in, to _show_ her what it would be like between them, was a living thing in his chest; it ate away his resolve the more (and more, and more) she responded to his feverish touch.

Sebastian tightened his grip on her hair with another low growl, bending her head back to kiss and bite his way along the sharp line of her jaw; he sucked a bruise against the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, thinking with a shiver of delicious guilt of everyone who would see it. It was wrong, _wrong_ to want to mark her like this, but he couldn’t seem to stop—his teeth scored along the pale arch and up to the delicate wing of her jawline. The noise she made when he sucked a bruise there rocked through him more terrible than any spell. “Marian,” he murmured. He couldn’t remember giving in to the temptation, but one of his knees had pushed between her thighs and he was rocking forward with each—

—each greedy roll of her hips and fuck, _fuck_.

“ _Maker_ , don’t stop,” Marian gasped, clawing at his shoulders. Sebastian sucked in an unsteady breath and shoved her harder against the door, loving the breathless noise she made at impact. She’d make that sound if he took her now. She’d gasp and keen and curse as he gripped her hips and drove into her slick heat, would wrap her legs tight around his waist and ride each buck of his hips, black hair falling wild around them—a cocoon, shielding their faces, binding them together as they passed a single breath back and forth again. And again. And again.

Marian cursed now and rode up against the heavy wood, head fallen back, a deep red flush rising from the modest clasp of her robe. Her lips were parted, her hair was an impossible tangle about her face, and she had never— _never_ —looked more beautiful than she did now.

He had to pause just long enough to cup her face, thumb brushing over her parted lips, marveling at the fierce, flushed woman in his arms…even as he rolled his hips and imagined he felt the scalding heat of her against his armored thigh. Void take him.

“You are everything,” Sebastian murmured. She shuddered at the gravel in his voice, lashes flickering and eyes going half-mast. Her breasts strained against the simple cloth of her robes, and he hated himself for reaching for her, but… But, Maker, when he rasped his knuckles over the tight peak of her nipple, she _writhed_ for him. He couldn’t help but wonder, dizzily, whether she would be so responsive everywhere. He wanted like mad to find out. He wanted his _mouth_ on her. “You are so fierce and _good_ , and I do not deserve—”

Sebastian cut himself off with a strangled noise, losing the words in another desperate kiss. There were so many confessions he wanted to make to her, so many things he desired and couldn’t have. Already he could feel his resolve going detached, unmoored. Already—rocking her back against the door, losing himself in the liquid glide of her tongue, in her _taste_ , Maker—he could feel himself yearning to give in. _I’ll go with you_ , he might have said in the flush of love and desire. _I will follow you anywhere. All you ever have to do is ask._

And that, the last cool, rational part of him whispered, was exactly what Marian was trying to accomplish here.

The reminder that this was some sort of _ploy_ , that she didn’t want him the way he so desperately wanted her, was cold water dashed on a flame. Sebastian broke the kiss with a gasp, shuddering hard against the twin knife’s-edge of shame and loss. For a moment, tangled up in Marian’s—in _Hawke’s_ —arms, he’d allowed himself to think…

But no. No, he was the only one that felt that way. He was deluding himself into thinking a feverish embrace might mean more. And how cheaply bought he almost had been, honor and vows giving way like candle wax to the flame. Hawke had offered him a piece of herself and he’d nearly gone tripping over himself in his eagerness. Even worse than a weakness of the flesh, he’d given himself _hope_.

Maker, he was such a fool—she’d admitted from the beginning that she was playing an angle. Hawke had never been anything but honest in the way she saw him…or didn’t see him, as the case may be. It was ridiculous to allow that to break his heart this way.

Hawke arched and tried to capture his mouth again, arms sliding around his neck. Sebastian had to close his eyes and breathe deeply in an attempt to re-center himself, even as he gently caught her wrists and pulled her arms down between them. “Hawke,” he said, taking a careful step back.

“Maker’s balls, where did you learn to kiss like that?” she murmured. Hawke pressed back against the door, flushed and panting. Her lips were slick, swollen; her hair had come loose from its braid and fell about her in messy tumbles all the way to her waist. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths that—

—that no, no, he couldn’t think about the way her robe clung, the way she _tasted_. He needed to master himself. He needed to _think_.

“Does it truly matter, Hawke?” he said, taking another careful step back. …then another, when even that wasn’t enough distance to discourage temptation. She looked like every sinful dream wrapped up in blush-stained flesh, her lashes dipped low, blue eyes dilated wide and wild. Oh how easily he could drop to his knees, frame her hips with his hands, and worship at her altar.

Hawke gave a soft, surprised laugh, pressing her palms against the door. She pushed away, robes swaying about her (shapely) legs. “It does if you picked up the knack at Chantry school,” she teased, advancing again because she wasn’t the type of woman who backed down. “Tell me, Sebastian, were you learning more than the Chant of Light with all those impressionable young Sisters?”

Sebastian fought the urge to cover his eyes with his hands, though he knew he was blushing like a maid. “I never,” he began, then sighed and smiled. Teasing he could handle. At least this was familiar ground between them. “Demon,” Sebastian said fondly. “You know that isn’t the way of it.”

“But there _is_ another way of it, isn’t there? Do you have scandalous secrets to tell me? Show me?” Her voice dropped low at the last, and she was pushing into his space again—trying to herd him back against the far wall. He could read the intent in her eyes, and Sebastian knew— _knew_ , as if he’d been given the gift of foresight—that if she succeeded, he would be lost. The taste of her lingered still on his tongue. The memory of her heat, the way she responded, the _sounds_ she made…

If he let himself get cornered again, her seduction would be a success and he would give her anything she asked.

And he would lose himself in the process.

“That is not a matter I can discuss with you, Hawke,” Sebastian said, sidestepping her and moving to the door. He grabbed for the handle before she could protest, using his superior speed and reflexes to flee unimaginable temptation. Years ago, when he was lost and dissolute, would he have ever thought he’d have the strength to look into the eyes of the one thing he wanted most in the world…and willingly walk away?

But no. No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? Because as much as Hawke was _tempting_ him, it wasn’t with what he truly wanted. _That_ was why he could back away. _That_ was why he could resist. 

She was offering him flesh, when what he wanted was so, so much more. “I must go.”

“Sebastian,” Hawke began, surprise and perhaps a little hurt coloring her voice, but he was already flinging open the door. The heavy incense they burned at the foot of Andraste’s statue wafted through the open door; below, on the main Chantry floor, he could hear Sisters reciting the Chant. The sound of it lanced through him like a blow. He was in the Maker’s house—here, within yards of the statue of the holy Creator himself, he’d pushed Marian Hawke against the door and scraped his teeth along her questing tongue. He’d _wanted her_ down to his bones, in a way that bordered on idolatry.

He slipped out of the quiet storage room and shut the door behind him, leaving Marian staring helplessly after him. He drew an unsteady breath and dragged his hand over his face—then forced himself to move toward the lifted sound of the Chant and away—away away away—from everything he wanted.

It seemed he had a great deal of praying to do.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief but bloody violence.
> 
> Another warning for hot shirtless Sebastian. You know, if you're into that sort of thing.

She was going to strangle him. With her bare hands.

No, Hawke mused as she wove her way through the knot of Sisters (who _still_ drew back like a flock of startled pigeons whenever she came near), she was going to strangle him with her bare _thighs_. She was strong enough to do it, too. Hiking up and down and all around Sundermount may have been hell on her temper, but it gave her legs of steel and a backside to match. Might as well send the blasted pure-as-driven-snow Chantry Prince to the void in style.

Just hold him down and _smother him_ with her oh-so sinful ladybits.

The image was diverting enough to steal a little of her thundercloud and earn something close to a smile. She’d been skulking about the Chantry for the last week, growing more and more frustrated as the Sisters avoided crossing her path, the Faithful avoided meeting her eyes, and bloody Sebastian Vael simply avoided her, period. She _needed_ something to smile about.

Hawke paused at the foot of Andraste’s statue, looking up toward the high altar. The Grand Cleric was there, as usual, her kind face serene. Standing next to her in his fine white armor that seemed to gather all the light to him like he really was some kind of fairy prince in one of Varric’s damn romances, Sebastian seemed less serene…but no less handsome than he’d been a week ago, blue eyes blown wide with desire, lips swollen, hair mussed, hands moving restlessly across her aching flesh as—

“Maker’s furry asscheeks,” Hawke muttered, ignoring the soft gasps that rose around her. The Sisters cringed away as she turned, pretending to be busy lighting the scores of candles the ringed Andraste’s holy toes. Not a single one looked at her.

 _No one_ looked at her.

She was half tempted to go stalking out onto the front steps and challenge the Templars herself. At least they’d meet her eyes when they tried to smite her.

Sighing and rubbing at her face with the meat of her palms, Hawke swept past the anxious Sisters and headed toward her room. It was the only place in the Chantry she felt welcome. Everywhere else—from its grand central arches to its offices to its quiet cells—echoed with the faint whispers of disapproval and fear. As if… As if she were somehow corrupting its grand halls with her presence. As if she really were a walking affront to the Maker, an abomination, a threat.

Templars ringing the building and the Faithful flinching away from her presence and her only friend in this whole benighted place flushing and bolting like a startled hare at the sight of her—was it any wonder she was beginning to feel restless in her own skin? Was it any wonder she felt so _unsettled_ , unwelcome, unwanted?

“Maybe Anders had the right of it,” Hawke said as she pushed into her room, slamming the door behind her in of a flare of instantly regretted childish rebellion. Well. _Whatever_. Let him pray through _that_.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Hawke startled, one instantly glowing hand lifting in defense. She blew out a breath when she spotted Varric leaning against the balcony railing, however, letting her spell sputter out unspent. “You probably shouldn’t startle pissed off mages,” she pointed out, but the peevish temper was already seeping from her voice. “We tend to respond with fireballs.”

Varric glanced over his shoulder, blond brows raised. “If you haven’t set me on fire by now, Hawke, I figure I’m pretty much in the clear.”

“True.” Hawke rotated her shoulders to work out the last of the tension even as she moved to join her friend on the balcony. As she stepped outside, she felt a palpable change in herself—a steady unmooring. She felt, briefly, almost herself again. A soft breeze was gusting from the east, bringing with it the scent of the sea. If she closed her eyes and filled her lungs with it, she could almost imagine she’d taken that ship Varric had arranged for her—that she was even now chasing the sunset on the back of a fast-moving merchantman, far away from Templars and Chantries and confusing, conflicted loyalties.

Far away from Sebastian.

She sighed and dipped her head, leaning against the railing heavily. The pure comfort of Varric’s arm against hers—of Varric in general—had her lips curving slightly at the corners. “Have you come to talk sense into me?”

Varric snorted. “Unlike some of our friends, Hawke, I know a lost cause when I see one.”

That startled a laugh from her. She tipped her head, blinking her eyes open to look down at him; those warm brown eyes were on her, amusement and worry and affection unashamedly visible. “True enough. Have you come to kidnap me, then?”

“Would you let me?” He passed her a flask.

Hawke considered it for a moment, thumb running over the sigil etched into its side—some fancy coat of arms, most likely Orlesian. She had vague memories of looting it off a body and tossing it to Varric as his share of the spoils. Good memories, spattered with blood and sweat and mud. She seemed to have a lot of those. “I’d be tempted today,” she admitted, taking a pull of the drink. It burned down her throat and she passed back the flask with a muffled cough. “But I’d make you bring me back once I’d had a chance to cool my heels. I’m not done here.”

He took a swallow. “There are a lot of men in metal skirts clanking about the place that would say otherwise.”

“Yeah, well.” She took the flask again when he handed it back, but she didn’t drink right away. The setting sun felt warm against her skin and…and she’d _missed_ this. She’d missed her life outside these walls. “They can kiss my lily white Ferelden ass…for at least another thirty or so days.”

Varric snorted and folded his arms against the railing, leaning forward. It came nearly up to his chin, but he managed not to look dwarfed in comparison. If anything, the way he relaxed forward, so comfortable, so self-assured, made _her_ feel big and lanky and out of place. “Thirty-something days is a long time, Hawke.”

“In here? It’s going to feel like forever.” Especially if Sebastian spent the entire time ducking away the moment she came near. It wasn’t like she had been the only participant in that kiss. Maker, it wasn’t even as if she’d had some sort of upper hand. Yes, she’d pushed the physical intimacy upon him, but he’d turned the tables on her in return, making it all feel so…intimate.

She wasn’t used to that. She wasn’t used to feeling those soft flutterings in her stomach when a man looked at her. Touched her. Whispered her _name_ as if it in itself was a prayer.

Maker. If anything, she should be the one running from _him_ and not the other way around. She’d offered sex; he’d hinted at something a lot more dangerous.

“It’s also not nearly long enough,” Varric continued smoothly, interrupting the darkening spiral of her thoughts. “Not when it’s counting down to you being handed over to Meredith. You’ve got a plan, right?”

She’d _had_ a plan. Not a very good one, true, but at least it was a goal she could work toward. Seduce the Chantry Prince (with words or bribes or sin…whichever tool worked best) and lure him away from the merrily boiling pot they both found themselves in. Sail the high seas. Maybe become a pirate. She’d make such a fetching pirate.

“Hawke?”

“Isabela helped me come up with one.”

Varric squinted up at her. “Well…shit,” he said feelingly.

Hawke laughed. “It’s not as bad as all that!” she protested. “It had contingencies and everything. It relies an awful lot on me being charmingly irresistible, however.”

“Then you should be set,” Varric said magnanimously, proving he was her best friend for a reason.

She snorted and took a long swig from the flask, swallowing down the burning liquor before passing it back. The soft wind dragged her robes about her legs and lifted long, loose strands of black hair. “It didn’t take _morals_ into account.”

“Isabela’s plans rarely do.”

There wasn’t much to be said to that, so she just leaned her head forward, resting her forehead against her folded arms. Varric was a warm, comforting, solid presence by her side. She could just make out the familiar scent of him—leather and parchment and something very much like spiced caramel. The coffee he drank like water when he was stressed and needed to keep his mind sharp.

She wondered how many late nights Varric had spent worrying over her. She wondered what would become of her crazy little family if the Templars won in the end. They would try to save her, she knew, and they could very well fail. Meredith had laid her trap well. Anders certainly would—

“Anders,” Hawke began, lifting her head.

“Is doing fine,” Varric interrupted smoothly, almost as if he had been waiting for the question. Knowing him, he probably had. “We’ve had a few little glowy problems, but he’s holding it together. Everyone is holding it together while we figure out what comes next.” He paused, then laid a hand over hers. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you, Hawke. Even if we have to come swooping in at the last hour to save you.”

Then he snorted and let his hand drop.

“Void. Maybe especially then. Be a good addition to that book I’m writing about you.”

“Well, far be it for me to not be _interesting_ enough for my own biography.” But she wouldn’t let it come to that. She couldn’t. She’d _have_ to find a way to convince Sebastian to run away with her first…and then think up some way to actually accomplish the escape. “Varric. Exactly how dangerous is it for you to be here right now?”

He tipped his head at her. “Assuming I’m actually caught?”

That was answer enough. She’d wondered why her friends—her mother—hadn’t come to visit her since she’d be taken under the Grand Cleric’s protection. Meredith, it seemed, had the Chantry within her iron grip. “Don’t come back,” Hawke said. “I’m serious. I don’t want any of you taking that risk. And you make sure Isabela knows that goes double for her.”

“Your friends want to see you, Hawke,” Varric said mildly. “We’re worried about you. You’re not one of these sparrows who take kindly to their gilt cage.”

There was a great deal of truth in that. Just a week into her forty-day sentence, and already she could feel her skin crawling. She wanted out. She wanted to be _free_. And…strangely…a part of her thought some of those “sparrows” might have felt the same way. Why else would Sebastian always be in his pristine armor, ready to follow her into adventures? Why else would he have fixated on her to begin with?

But those were thoughts for another time.

“I’ll be all right,” she promised. “It’s almost relaxing, not having to chase you lot through Kirkwall and up and down cursed mountains every other day. I’m thinking I should have claimed Sanctuary a long time ago.”

“If you need us—”

She interrupted before things could become even more difficult. Who knew she could be selfless enough to sever ties with everything and everyone she loved? “I’ll send up a flare. Or fireball. Or something. You’ll know. But it’s not going to come to that, Varric. _Trust me_. I’ve got this under control.”

“Trust me, the hero said, as if her dashing dwarven companion had not witnessed her falling on her ass a hundred times over.”

Hawke wrinkled her nose. “I really hate when you narrate, you know.”

“No, he realized, tapping his chin.” Varric tapped his chin. “Make that a _thousand_ times over.”

“I can and will smother you with a pillow.”

“The hero really was kind of a fuck-up sometimes, all things being equal.”

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, trying to swallow back a laugh. “In fact, I think I’ll go get one right now…” But as she stepped back toward the balcony door, Varric reached and caught her hand. She was so surprised by the unexpected, rare show of naked affection that she stilled, then let herself drift closer as he thread their fingers together.

His were thick and dexterous. Hers long-fingered and boney. Somehow, they fit together perfectly, the way their whole ragtag group seemed to fit together—as if by some design greater than their disparate parts.

“You’re going to be okay,” Varric said, staring out across Kirkwall as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her in this strange moment of intimacy. As if, somehow, that would make it all too much. “We’re pulling for you, on the outside. We’re going to make sure you make it through this one.”

Hawke swallowed hard, blinking back sudden tears. This felt like another goodbye, and she had to make herself assent even as a part of her wanted to cling onto him forever. “Yeah,” she said, voice wobbly but still filled with bravado. “I’ve faced dragons and ogres and irritable Orlesians before. I’ve got this.”

**

She didn’t have this.

It was hours later, deep into the night. Varric had left some time back—spirited away into whichever sneaky back entrance he’d used before—and she’d spent the evening worrying about whether or not he’d been caught. It was hell, thinking about the Templars surrounding the Chantry wanting to get in to _her_ , but it was even worse thinking of the way their trap was also set to spring should they catch anyone who was _close_ to her.

The anxiety of that, sick and leaden in her stomach, kept her awake long into the night before she finally drifted off to a fitful sleep…which was why she was so slow to wake at the first soft creak of someone slipping into her room.

Hawke shifted toward the sound, blearily blinking open her eyes. She saw a shape in the darkness—armored, broad-shouldered—and for a breath, she actually relaxed back in sleep-befuddled pleasure. _Sebastian_.

But then a hand was closing over her mouth and the figure hissed, “ _Silence_.”

She jerked up, startled fully awake by the sudden harsh drain of her mana, but it was too late. It had likely been too late from the start—Ser Mettin had her cornered like a fox run to ground, and he knew it.

“No you don’t,” he muttered when Hawke tried to dart away, striking at him with her fists. He caught one and took a hard blow across his jaw from the other. That was enough to have him dropping the hand covering her mouth, and Hawke drew in a breath to scream even as she kicked out.

The hard metal plate protected him from her kick, but he was surprised enough to take a step back. That bit of distance was all she needed. Hawke lunged forward and bit the fingers gripping her fist _hard_ , delighting in the tang of blood. Ser Mettin hissed and released his grip just long enough for her to use her forward momentum to go tumbling to the floor and up onto her feet all in one move, the way Isabela had taught her. Her bedroom door was still open, the vaulted glow of the sanctuary beyond just visible, and she darted toward safety without a backward glance, readying a breath for another scream sure to echo through the entire Chantry. She’d wake the fucking Maker himself if she had to.

But she’d barely gotten two darting steps before Ser Mettin lashed out, grabbing the trailing end of her long braid and _yanking_. Hawke’s breath come out in a sharp cry, pain lancing through her skull seconds before she went staggering back against the prison of his chest, off-balance, eyes stinging. She’d been pulled back so hard she’d lost her footing, and before she could reorient, he caught her about the waist with one arm, the other hand clapping over her mouth and nose as if he meant to end it right here, right now.

“Fucking mage _bitch_ ,” he muttered, squeezing tight. The air was forced out of her by the vise-like grip he had around her middle—trapped between the armor of his gauntlets and the hard shell of his breastplate—and the sweaty hand he had clamped over her face. Hawke tried to wriggle free, legs flailing for a single good _kick_. She tried biting at his fingers. She tried scrabbling for the magic held just beyond her grasp.

Nothing. _Nothing_. She had _nothing_ and no way to defend herself, and she… She couldn’t… She couldn’t _breathe_ and…

She tried to twist away, but her movements were growing sluggish. Black sparks floated in front of her eyes, growing steadily like a stoked flame. Her lungs burned and her throat ached and, and, and it was getting hard to think—it was getting hard to do anything except slowly still her struggles, slowly go limp, slowly…

Slowly…

The whistle of displaced air stirred the loose strands of hair clinging to her neck less than a second before Ser Mettin’s grip tightened reflexively—then began to go slack. She heard the gurgle of his breath and felt a sudden hot rush, but Hawke didn’t give herself time to wonder what had happened. She jerked free of his grip and sucked in a grateful lungful of air, entire body _screaming_ at the relief.

There was another whistle, followed by a fleshy squelch, and when she blindly turned her head, her cheek brushed against the soft fletching of an arrow.

Maybe it was the loss of oxygen or maybe it was her sleep-befuddled brain still coming awake—or maybe it was something else altogether—but time seemed to slow into strange flashing impressions. The heat of Ser Mettin’s blood spattering the side of her face and neck. The strange, gory bristle of arrows jutting from his exposed throat and join of his shoulder. The slumping weight of him dragging against her staggering body, trying to pull her down with him, and _Sebastian_ standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of loose trousers and a fierce scowl that rocketed through her in a blaze of awareness…drawing back his arm as he notched another arrow.

“Let her go,” he said, as cold as death itself, and in that moment, Hawke loved him as fiercely as she had ever loved any of her friends. As fiercely as she had ever loved anything in her life.

Ser Mettin tried to tighten his grip, stumbling weakly, but his hold on her mana had gone as slack as his fingers. Hawke twisted around and stumbled back toward Sebastian—careful not to get in his line of sight—a sudden shockwave of power sending the Templar toppling back onto her bed. He was scrabbling at the arrow jutting from his throat, trying to close his increasingly clumsy fingers around the shaft. If they didn’t get potions in him quick, he would die right there on her bed, soaking the mattress in a shocking halo of red.

Outside, in the main sanctuary came the pounding of feet and the clatter of armor. Their struggle had been overhead; but were those reinforcements to help her or finish what Ser Mettin had started?

Sebastian’s shoulder brushed hers as he stepped close. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

When she didn’t answer, trembling suddenly so hard she wasn’t sure she could, Sebastian turned his head to look at her. His incredible blue eyes were bright with worry, with fierce protectiveness, and her heart gave an uncertain lurch in response. _Maker_ the way he was looking at her. “Marion,” he said gently, his brogue a deep husk, “are you hurt?”

Hawke swallowed. “I,” she began, then glanced over her shoulder toward where the reinforcements would come pouring in any second. Ser Mettin was still heaving in whistling breaths, dying by slow degrees—still a threat, because Maker, if he came at her against orders once, what was to keep him from doing it again?

(And a small, cynical part of her whispered in response: _Who’s to say he acted against Meredith’s orders?_ )

“I’ll be fine,” she finally settled on.

Sebastian nodded once. “Good,” he said. Then, in a dizzyingly graceful move—as beautiful as it was deadly—he shifted the focus of his aim, tightened his draw, and let the arrow fly _straight_ into Ser Mettin’s bulging blue eye.

The shock of that act barely had time to echo through her before Sebastian was turning, muscles of his bare chest rippling with the movement, and pulled another arrow from the quiver. He had it notched and ready in an instant, pointing toward the open door.

Standing between her and whatever was to come.


	13. Chapter 13

The air was tense, electric, as they waited for the second wave of the attack.

But true to form, Marian Hawke did not have the patience to wait long.

Sebastian dropped his bow and caught Marian’s arm when she made as if to push past him. His heart, lodged in his throat from the first moment he became aware she was in trouble, lurched painfully at her sharp look.

“Hawke,” he said—then again, “ _Hawke_ ,” tugging her back into the relative safety of the bedroom when she tried to jerk free. Maker take the woman, she would go sprinting head-first into danger at the slightest provocation if there was no one near to care for her wellbeing. It was one of the things he most admired about her—her dedication to doing the right thing, to helping people—but it was maddening when _she_ was the target.

It was even more maddening when _he_ was the reason she was not safely leagues away. Damn his morals, damn his scruples, if he was the reason this incredible woman was lost to the world…

He wasn’t sure he could bear that thought.

_Just let me save you, Marian_ , Sebastian didn’t, couldn’t say, hyperaware of the threat of more Templars. There was no way Mettin had been working alone. Instead, he tried to shield her with his own body, standing firmly between Marian and the door and trusting that it would be enough. Still, she resisted. “Hawke, please, this is madness.”

She whirled on him, eyes snapping fire…a purpling ring of bruises already appearing around her throat. _Maker_. The sight of it sickened him, made his blood boil sudden and hot. He wished he had Merrill’s talent to make the dead walk, if only so he could strike Ser Mettin down again and again and again.

He should be ashamed of such a violent thought; he _wasn’t_.

“Let me go,” Marian hissed, her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “There will be more.”

“Yes.” He gently pushed her farther away from the open door, lifting his bow again. He could hear the warning clank of metal as the Templars (two? Three? How many had been taken in by Mettin’s madness?) tried to creep up the steps toward the visiting dignitary’s suite. “There will certainly be more.” And they would deal with these men the way they dealt with anyone who crossed them—only this time, there was no Fenris or Aveline between them and hungry steel. Sebastian was the last line of defense; the last shield between Marian and certain death.

He would be damned before he failed her.

She let out an unsteady breath, and Sebastian resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder one last time. Maker, it had been so close; if he had only been a few _seconds_ late… “I don’t want you to have to kill for me,” Marian murmured, sounding all at once so sad and lost his heart ached for her.

Sebastian closed his eyes against the pain, then blinked them open again, refocusing. He had to be ready. “It is too late for that, Marian,” he said, as gently as he could. He wished he could offer some sort of comfort, some lie she could hold close until the danger had passed—but while he may not have been the best of the Maker’s chosen, he was at least unflagging in his sense of justice, and he could never bring himself to lie to the woman he loved.

Just as he could never stand aside and watch her be harmed, no matter what that meant for the state of his soul.

“Be ready,” he said in a low voice, straining to hear each little scrape of metal-on-stone, each muffled rattle of shield and sword. He nocked the arrow and drew the way his grandfather had taught him, world narrowing down into the feel of fletched wood resting against the curve of his fingers; the steady tightness of his arm; the slow, even breath.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Marian moved behind him, no doubt lifting her staff to prepare a spell, but he was too focused on his oncoming targets to spare her a glance, locked in the rhythmic hum of the archer’s stance, waiting, waiting…

He met the first Templar’s eyes as the man moved into the open doorway—yet Sebastian held steady, _waiting_ that uncertain moment that felt like forever as the Templar paused, hesitated, almost lowered his blade.

_Do it_ , Sebastian begged, even as he refused to lower his own weapon. _By the Maker’s grace, do not force our hand_.

But the Templar sucked in a breath and let it out in a bellow, lifting his blade as he charged into the room.

Sebastian let his arrow fly, already reaching for the next before it had even had a chance to find its mark. There was a crackle of lightning behind him, and the fine hairs at the back of his neck rose in response. He ignored the sizzle of electricity, trusting Marian not to catch him in her spell, and let another arrow fly before the staggered Templar could rise to his full height. There were pounding footsteps—a metal _clank clank_ that could only be this man’s fellows—and surprised calls from down below.

The sisters?

Maker, he hoped they had the sense to stay out of the fray.

“Andraste guide my aim,” he murmured beneath his breath, keeping his chokehold on a steady sense of calm despite the rabbit-fast beat of his heart. He waited as the third Templar pushed through the door, past his fellow (crumpled to the ground, jolting across the tiles within a storm of Marian’s making) and toward the two of them. Sebastian coolly waited for the man to lift his sword, watching for that vulnerable flash of underarmor—then sent another arrow sailing with a soft _shhht_. Another. _Another_.

Each found its mark, guided by the steadiness of his hand and his pure, desperate desire to see Marian safe no matter the price.

The Templar staggered back with a gurgling cry. Fell. Sebastian rose smoothly, nocking yet another arrow even as he moved carefully forward. He stepped over a now-still body, eyes locked on his fellow. The man was a bristle of arrows, each shaft rising from his plate in a dark forest. He was skittering back across the stone floor— _away_ , toward some impossible escape—metal scraping, blood spattering the floor. His deadened fingers had dropped his sword; Sebastian kicked it aside without a second glance.

“Your last words,” Sebastian said softly.

The Templar groaned. “ _Fuck_ you and your maleficar.” He spat a stream of red, one hand pressed against a flow of blood, the other braced on the floor. His eyes were bright with fanatic hatred. “Knight-Commander Meredith will burn this place to the ground if she has to. We’ll burn you all.”

“Your last words,” he said again.

The Templar simply flashed his reddened teeth in a macabre smile.

_Maker, forgive us both_. Sebastian drew a steady breath—in. hold. Out. Hold. “As you wish,” he murmured, already mourning. “May Andraste speed you to the Maker’s side.”

“Wait!” Marian suddenly cried, catching his arm before he could let the arrow fly. He glanced over at her, hating how pale she looked. _Shaken_ in a way he’d never before witnessed. Her hair was wild about her, eyes a troubled blue, and he had to look away or he’d be lost in them. “Sebastian,” she said, quieter. “This isn’t you.”

“This is not the first life I’ve taken,” Sebastian reminded her. He looked back at the fallen Templar, keeping a watchful eye on him. They could not risk letting this man go free. Even if he did not see his threat through, he would be a danger to Marian for as long as he lived. Sebastian could not allow that.

Marian moved closer, so close he could feel the heat cast from her body. She was in a nightrail, rumpled from broken sleep, and all at once he was uncomfortably aware of how…how… _naked_ he felt next to her. It would be all too easy to imagine that they had been roused from bed together; that he had been by her side all night, one arm flung protectively across her middle, his face buried in a waterfall of black silk. “He’s unarmed,” she murmured. “I know you, Sebastian—you do not kill unarmed men. Don’t do this. Please. Not for me.”

He swallowed. “You fail to understand, Marian: I would do far worse for you.” He didn’t even bother trying to hide the utter devotion in his words. What was the point? She had to know how he felt about her by now, even if she could never manage to see him as more than a joke—a failed prince, a failed brother of the cloth, a failed man. “And it must be done.”

She dug her fingers into the straining muscle of his bicep, tugging until he reluctantly lowered his bow. Ah Maker, Marian stood so close to him he could feel the brush of her body, could smell the sweet fall of her hair. When she let out a gusting breath, Sebastian felt it heat his cheek, and he had to close his eyes against the thrum of awareness that always, always bloomed deep in his belly when she was near. She had bewitched him; she was bewitching. “I know,” Marian finally said, grip on his arm gentling. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be _you_. Let me do this for you, Sebastian. I promise you, killing an unarmed Templar sent to murder me in my sleep won’t trouble my conscience the way it would yours.”

“Marian… _Hawke_ ,” he corrected.

“Marian,” she said. “And hush; I’m being noble. I want you to appreciate it, because Maker knows no one else ever does.”

That surprised a (surely inappropriate) bark of laughter out of him. Sebastian let the arrow relax as he straightened, falling a step back as he gracefully let her take the lead. He had followed her here and there across Kirkwall—to the Wounded Coast, the Bone Pit, Sundermount. He’d watched her back as she picked over the bodies of slavers and thugs, and he’d taken her orders without complaint for longer than he cared to remember now.

He _trusted_ her. More than that, perhaps—he had faith.

Sebastian kept his eyes trained on the Templar as Marian moved forward. The man was flagging, parchment-pale and struggling to remain upright in a growing pool of blood. His eyes were fixed on Marian’s face, hatred so palpable it made the hairs on Sebastian’s arms rise. _This_ was the sort of man trusted to watch over the Maker’s children?

Marian paused in front of him, staff gripped in both hands. Sebastian couldn’t see her face at this angle, but he recognized the set of her shoulders. “Are there more of you?” she asked, voice low.

The Templar pulled his lips back in a snarl. “Suck my cock, maleficar bitch.”

She _tsked_. “Probably a bad idea, if you really do think I’m a blood mage. Lots of spurty bits should I decide to take a bite.”

“Suck. My. Cock. Maleficar _bitch_.”

Sebastian took an unconscious step forward, growl caught low in his throat, but Marian thrust out a hand to keep him back. Her gaze never left the Templar’s. “I’ve done nothing but try to help people ever since coming to Kirkwall,” she said, voice perfectly even. “I’ve tried to keep the _peace_ ; I’ve tried to make people see there was a way we could work things out without more bloodshed. And at every step of the way, you and your kind have fought me; _why_?”

The Templar tried to push himself up straighter, face twisted in silent fury. The red-black pool of blood haloing his body was growing with every moment; his armor clanked together as he _trembled_ against his body’s own weakness. Just past him, Sebastian could make out movement on the steps as a few of the Sisters crept closer. He thought he heard a murmured, urgent: _fetch the Grand Cleric_. Down below, he heard the distinct thudding boom of the grand doors being barred—but they wouldn’t hold against the Templars long should they mount a focused attack.

“We should hurry,” he murmured, shifting closer.

Marian gave a faint nod. “Won’t you answer?” she asked.

“Go to the…void with you,” the Templar spat. His voice was coming in ragged, wheezing pants. He seemed to be having a difficult time concentrating his gaze. _If we wait much longer_ , Sebastian thought, _I will have killed him no matter Marian’s wishes_. “I don’t have to…speak…to a mage bitch like you. Barely…human. The, the lot of you.”

She sighed. “Well,” Marian said, lifting her staff again. “I want to make it clear for the record: I really did try.” Then she wrenched her staff, using that strange new magic he had seen her first use so recently—was it just a day or so ago?—to send the Templar’s head jerking roughly to the side.

His neck broke with a loud _snap_! He crumpled to the floor seconds later, eyes staring up at the Chantry ceiling, bloodied lips twisted in one last snarl.

Marian sighed and lowered her staff. She leaned against it, shoulders hunching forward, looking all at once so impossibly small and _frail_. “Fuck,” she said simply.

Sebastian dropped his bow without a care and reached for her, catching her elbow and wheeling her toward him. She didn’t resist, letting her staff clatter to their feet as she fell into his arms—head ducked into the curve of his neck, arms curled defensively between their bodies, breath coming out in a serrated gust. Sebastian pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, wrapping tighttighttight around her. “Marian,” he murmured, kissing her temple, her brow, hands rubbing up and down her back in a soothing caress. He could not imagine what it must be like to be hated in that way; hated simply because of a Maker-given gift. 

Surely this was not what Andraste had intended. Somewhere along the way, the world had gotten it _wrong_. And if it was… If this was her holy vision… Well.

Perhaps he wasn’t so pious a man after all, because if _this_ was the world Andraste had envisioned, Sebastian would have gladly spat in her holy face.

“It is all right, Marian,” he murmured, over and over, pressing his cheek to her hair, holding her as tight as he could. “I have you. You are safe. We will get you out of here, and you will be _safe_.”

“Come with me,” she whispered. Marian pulled back just enough to lift her face. There were tears bright in her eyes, but they remained unshed. She was too strong a woman to break now; Maker, but he wanted to cup her cheeks and kiss the dark sweep of her lashes. “Sebastian, _please_. I don’t want to leave you.”

He let out a shaky breath, then dropped his head forward until their foreheads were pressed together. “Aye,” he said simply. “I will follow wherever you lead.” _I love you_.

The noise she made rocked through him—fierce and hurt and joyful all bundled together—and he gasped against her mouth when Marian surged up into a sudden kiss. Her hands flattened over his bare chest and her lips moved over his, swallowing Sebastian’s groan as she swiped her tongue along the seam of his mouth.

There were a thousand and one reasons why he shouldn’t allow this kiss, but they all scattered at the headstrong heat of her. He moaned again, lips parting, and wrapped his arms firmly around Marian’s waist at the first brush of their tongues. Sebastian lifted her, bracing her against his body as one calloused hand sank into her mass of dark hair, tipping her face—changing the angle so he could stroke his tongue deep, deeper, into her mouth, plundering the sweet heat of her with everything he had.

She made a noise that had him hardening in his loose sleeping pants and _wriggled_ against him like the utter hellion she was, hips dragging against his. He’d lifted her clean off the floor, but that wasn’t enough to stop her—Marian’s nails dug into his shoulders and the hot core of her pressed hard against his cock as she fought to swing her legs up, up, up.

Sebastian staggered forward a step, blindly grasping the curve of her ass, and lifted her. She bit at his tongue, teeth raking it roughly before she sucked away the sting ( _oh, oh Maker_ ), long legs wrapping around his waist. Her ankles locked together, heels digging into the small of his back, and he could feel her like a fire inside him—consuming him, leaving nothing but ash.

Oh, how he wanted her.

He had no idea how lost they would have become in each other if there hadn’t been a polite throat-clearing from the doorway. Sebastian jerked his head up, on high alert—Maker what a fool he’d been; there was no _proof_ they’d defeated the last of their attackers—and mortified heat broke over him in a wave when he looked across the crumpled bodies of the Templars and met Elthina’s eyes.

She was in her nightrail, hands folded at her waist, long grey hair braided down her back. Both brows were arched.

“I _do_ hate to interrupt,” the woman who was like a mother to him said, “but I’m afraid you’re in something of a hurry.”

“Ah…” Sebastian said, all at once aware of his state of undress; of Marian clinging like a limpet in his arms.

Marian gave a muffled curse—something that sounded suspiciously like _assbiscuits_ —and slithered out of his arms with impressive speed. She stepped around him, one hand reaching up to touch her hair as if she could somehow magically tame the wild tangle of it. Then, shoulders hunching a little under Elthina’s level gaze, Marian dragged the back of her hand across her mouth.

Sebastian fought an overwhelming urge to go curl up in a corner somewhere. How had this day spun so wildly out of control?

“Serrah Hawke was under attack,” Sebastian explained before the awkward silence could drag any longer. “I came to her aide.”

“I see,” Elthina said. “I gathered as much from her enthusiastic show of gratitude.”

_Maker_ save his wretched hide; if he flushed any darker, he was pretty sure he would die on the spot. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking at this point?

But Elthina shook her head when Marian opened her mouth to explain. “You need say no more, child; I understand. It sickens me that it came to this, but the Chantry will stand between you and Meredith’s wrath long enough for you to escape this place.”

“So,” Marian said eagerly. “You’ll no longer remain neutral? You’ll finally get off your rear and pick a side?”

“I will write to her most holy Justinia,” Elthina said firmly. Marian had the grace the flush. “Until I receive instruction, I will act as my conscience dictates. These Templars have raised their sword against the church; it is my duty to lift its shield. Now, we must hurry. If I’m not mistaken, these men will have brothers eager for their return; they will not remain idle long. We must—”

Even as she spoke, there was a loud, echoing _boom_ down from the main doors. Sebastian snagged his bow and moved past the crowded sisters toward the balcony, eyes scanning the vestibule. There was a moment of perfect still, of silence—and then the doors buckled again, rocking against the heavy wood barring them with a steady _boom, boom_ of steel plate.

“Ah, child,” Elthina sighed, moving to his side. The look she cast him was unspeakably sad. “What a mess you’ve found yourself in. It seems you did not choose your allies wisely.”

“No, your grace” Sebastian countered. He covered her old hand with his, squeezing gently; his heart twisted when she squeezed back. “I chose well—and I would do so again.”

Behind them, Marian was quickly snatching up her treasures even as the sisters flew into action, some dragging the bodies out of the room, others already at work with mops and lye soap. The efficiency in which they cleaned up evidence of the attack ( _the murder?_ No, his conscience still felt entirely too clear thanks to Marian) was staggering.

Elthina turned to him, eyes kind, and pulled him into an embrace. He resisted for a moment, embarrassed to be shirtless—usually they were separated by robes and armor and polite custom—but Sebastian melted after an instant, arms going around the woman who had showed him such kindness; who had taken him in when he was at his darkest. “Take care of yourself, Sebastian,” she murmured, one wrinkled hand cupping the back of his head. “This is not the path I would have chosen for you, but I know you will walk it well. You are a _good_ man.”

“Thanks to you,” he said, voice gruff with emotion. When he pulled back, his eyes felt hot with tears there was no time to shed.

“I will buy you time. One of the sisters has already slipped out to let your friends know a ship will be needed. Do you know your way through the catacombs still?”

He should; he’d used them to sneak out of the church undetected often enough as a wild young thing. “I do,” he said.

“There will be patrols along the near shore. Wait until you receive the signal; the church will be your shelter in this dark time.” Then she cupped and drew him down to press a kiss between his brows. “Take care of him for me, my dear,” Elthina said as Sebastian straightened.

“I will,” Marian said quietly, moving beside him. She pressed the warm wool blanket into his arms—the closest thing he’d have to clothing in their daring escape, Sebastian mused, and wouldn’t the dwarf laugh when he saw him—and Sebastian quickly folded it around his middle and tied it off, kilt-style, the way his grandfather’s generation used to dress. He could easily pull the trailing topmost fold around his shoulders later, when he knew there was no need for his bow. “I promise.”

And then, miraculously, Marian reached out to take Sebastian’s hand.

He looked down at her, startled. He’d been so certain the kiss had been a momentary madness, sparked by relief. He still wasn’t certain what was real and what was not—and yet when she tipped her face up to his, the warm smile in her eyes, the certainty, made hope bloom unchecked within his breast.

_Ah Maker, Maker please._

“This way,” Elthina said, looking between them one last time before turning away. Down the stairs, the Templars were still pounding at the doors with the steady, rhythmic _boom_ of a battering ram. Meredith’s madness, it seemed, had indeed spread far. “And may the Maker smile over you.”

“Aye,” Sebastian said, barely glancing around the church that had been his home for so long as he followed the Grand Cleric toward the hidden door that would take them deep into the warrens beneath the chantry. Marian gave his hand a squeeze and his heart lurched in response. “I do believe he is.”


	14. Chapter 14

The catacombs stretched beneath the Chantry for what felt like miles, weaving in dark turns and sudden blinds that would have left her dizzy if Sebastian had not been there to guide her. It was cold, the chill creeping from damp stone and dead things; she shivered with each step. Sebastian had found a torch tucked away just beyond that first creaking door, but its light was barely enough to cut through the gloom that pressed in on all sides. If she fell more than a few paces behind, she could easily be lost forever.

There were shadows flickering above her; blackened stone below; and nothing but the void ahead and behind. There were men who were hunting her, and a madwoman who wanted her dead…or worse. By all rights, she _should_ have been miserable and afraid. And yet… Well…

Hawke couldn’t help but think: for the second time in an admittedly short lifespan, she was fleeing home in search of an uncertain future someplace far away. Sure, this time there were Templars rather than darkspawn, but the similarities between her desperate flight from Lothering and her current situation were too numerous to be denied.

Except for one. One very handsome exception.

One very handsome and all but _naked_ exception.

Hawke bit back another smile. It wasn’t that she was shallow or had any delusions of grandeur—to hear Varric tell it, she’d fallen right off the turnip truck and tumbled into a dragon’s den—but no matter how dark the night or serious the threat, things couldn’t seem all that dire when a bare-chested Marcher _prince_ was just a few paces ahead.

And wow, what a chest it was. What a back. What an _everything_.

“I hope no one ever told you that you were subtle, Marian,” Sebastian said, dryly.

She didn’t bother to drag her eyes up from a serious study of his shapely rear. The flickering candlelight highlighted the steady bunch of muscles along his back, making his bronzed skin glow. Why hadn’t she made him strip for her pleasure in fickle torchlight before? It could have saved them months of awkward not-quite-friendship. Not even Isabela would be able to forget the sight of Sebastian now, blanket kilted about his waist, white bow gleaming against dark skin, hair falling messy and endearing into his blue-blue- _blue_ eyes. “No one would dare,” she said—then laughed when he actually came to a stop, turning to face her. “What?” she added, arching a teasing brow.

Sebastian studied her face, his own expression somewhere between baffled and bemused. He seemed at a loss for what to say. “It is only…you certainly do bounce back from adversity,” he finally settled on. “You were nearly murdered in your sleep.”

“And now I’m on the run, leaving behind my home and nearly everyone I love,” she said with a philosophical shrug. “There’s no use being maudlin about it. We’ll wait out the night here, we’ll find Varric’s ship waiting for us in the morning, and we’ll be gone with the next tide. With the kind of luck I’ve had in life, it’s important to focus on whatever positives you can find. Also,” she added, wry smile stretching brief and bittersweet. “At least this time there are no ogres.” No ogres and no sisters to be lost.

No. No, she would _not_ think of that now.

Sebastian was just standing there, watching her. There was never a silence Hawke wasn’t compelled to fill, so she continued, only partly in jest, “Would you rather I prayed to the Maker for forgiveness for the lives I’ll never regret taking? Or should I tear at my hair and run through the catacombs in tears, knowing it could well be years before I see Kirkwall again?” Sebastian said nothing. “Sebastian, I have to keep going. It’s what Hawkes do; we survive, no matter the odds, and more often than not with a bad joke at the ready to mask our wounded hearts.”

Sebastian said nothing.

“…that was a joke,” Hawke added, gesturing awkwardly. “That last part especially.”

Sebastian said nothing.

“Honestly, I’m not feeling particularly wounded right now.”

Sebastian _said nothing._ Instead he just stared at her, visibly shell-shocked. A slow smile curving his lips. “What?” Hawke finally demanded, flustered. “What did I say?”

“… _nearly_ everyone?” he murmured, voice thick with brogue.

It was unfair the way that voice could make her feel. She had to tumble back through her chaotic thoughts to remember exactly what it was she’d said—and her cheeks flamed with instant color the moment she realized her slip.

_And now I’m on the run, leaving behind my home and nearly everyone I love._

_Nearly_ everyone, because Sebastian was by her side.

“Oh,” Hawke said, one hand jerking up to cover her mouth. His smile was growing, slow and steady and sweetly hopeful, and _void_ but she couldn’t look at him. Not now—not when she felt so naked herself, caught out by her own traitorous tongue. Hawke looked away, squirming inside, then abruptly launched forward to push past him. She caught the torch from his hands, lifting it to keep the smoke from trailing back into her face as she practically raced down the next corridor. Her heart pounded, her lungs felt tight. For the first time in the last hour, she actually felt as if she were running for her life. “Oh look, a convenient passageway. Let’s see where that goes, shall we?”

Sebastian jogged to catch up before she could outpace her own embarrassment, gently catching her elbow and turning her in a new direction. “We know where that goes, Marian,” he said; there was laughter in his voice, damn him, as well as something far deeper and ten times more emotional. She couldn’t look at his eyes or she would surely burst into flames on the spot. “And I promise you, it is nowhere you wish to be.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said as airily as she could manage. For some reason, when he was touching her, she was even _more_ aware of how perilously close to naked he was. She was also far, far too aware of her own thin nightrail. Could he see the shape of her body in the flickering firelight? And if so…did he like what he was seeing? It was ridiculous to think that way _now_ of all times, but she couldn’t seem to control the headfirst gallop of her thoughts. “I… Maybe I’d find it charming.”

He cocked his head. “It is a mass grave dating back to Kirkwall’s time as a slave port.”

“…maybe I wouldn’t find it charming.” She made a face, relaxing into his touch. His hand was so warm and deliciously rough where it cupped her bare arm. What would it feel like on the rest of her? “There’s a mass grave filled with former slaves down here? Please don’t tell Fenris.”

“I would not dare,” he promised faux-gravely before letting his hand fall away. Hawke immediately missed its warmth, but there was nothing she could do but offer a crooked smile as he gave what had to be a teasing half-bow—courtly, as if she were some kind of princess; _his_ princess, and all right, her mind seriously was scrambled beyond salvation if _that ridiculous thought_ was enough to fill her with butterflies—and lead the way down a winding stone path.

They walked together this time, Hawke holding the torch, Sebastian keeping them on the right path. In the darkness, she could just make out dozens of other branching paths leading in all directions. There were deep copses filled with bleached white bones and dusty gold urns. They passed circular rooms tiled with cracked mosaics and daises supporting ancient gilt sarcophagi.

“How do you know which way to go?” Hawke finally asked, voice dropped in a respectful whisper as they passed under an ornate archway. It was crumbling at its corners, but she could still make out the grave faces of Andraste and her council watching her from its apex—picked out in brilliant paints that seemed to glow beneath the fickle torchlight.

It was strange, how beautiful the catacombs beneath the city were. A lost beauty, cracked and faded and somehow…sad.

She felt impossibly _sad_ passing through these hollow tombs with their elegant decay.

Sebastian reached out, fingertips lightly brushing the base of her spine, as if he could sense the emotion bubbling up inside her. Hawke tried to smile, but it felt like a weak thing now; surely he could see right through it, the way he always seemed to see right to the heart of her.

“I came down here often as a young man,” Sebastian supplied. “Back when I first was given to the church. I was angry, then. I was homesick and stubborn and refused to see the life I had been offered as anything but a cage.”

“I know how that feels,” Hawke murmured, remembering those first years in Lowtown.

He glanced at her, blue eyes uncannily bright even in their intimate darkness. “Then you understand how restless it can feel, being trapped where you do not belong. How you will find any excuse you can to run."

“To run and to fight. But you came to love being part of the church,” she said.

He shrugged a shoulder. It was surprisingly easy imagining him as a young, angry boy, running deep into the belly of the city to escape from the shining perfection of the Chantry above. A year ago—a month ago—a _week_ ago—she wouldn’t have been able to believe Sebastian didn’t always belong amongst the gleaming statues, the holy light, the sacred silence.

Now…she knew better now. She knew how he tasted and how he burned beneath that deceptively pristine white armor.

“How?” she asked, leaning into his touch.

Sebastian glanced at her, eyes dilating. It was all she could do not to press into the heat of his body. “Kindness,” he said after a long beat. “The Grand Cleric…Elthina…she was _kind_ to me. Kinder than I deserved, surely. And watching her, watching the way she approached every mistake, every challenge, with the same gentle compassion and careful consideration, I found I could not fight against her any more. I stopped…raging against my path and began to _listen_. And in listening, I was changed.”

It was hard to see Elthina the way Sebastian did; not when that slow, careful consideration was the thing standing in the way of the revolution Anders was so set on sparking. Yet Hawke swallowed back any criticism she may have shared. “What were you listening for?”

“The Maker.”

He said it so casually, as if it were such an obvious and easy task, that Hawke had to laugh. Sebastian’s lips quirked in response, and he reached to take the torch back from her; the brush of his fingers against hers worked a shiver down her spine. “Mock me all you wish, Marian,” he said, leading the way through a narrow corridor. Its ceiling was so low that they had to hunch to pass through. It twisted and turned, moving in erratic zigzags, but she swore in the distance she could hear the sound of water gently falling. “But there are worse things in this world than allowing yourself to be still.”

“Name them,” she countered. Before he could say anything more, she added, “Meditating on the Maker may have helped you—”

“Calmed me, shaped me.”

“—yes, fine, but I _have_ to keep moving. That kind of…peace, whatever…doesn’t work for someone like me.”

He slipped out of the cramped passageway and into the next chamber. Sebastian straightened out of sight for a moment before crouching again to look back at her—hands empty. The torchlight flickered above him, casting his features in golden light, like a holy halo. It danced across bronzed skin, defined muscle, eyes as clear and blue as a mountain stream. When he reached for her, offering his big, calloused hand, Hawke’s heart gave a sudden hard lurch.

Maker, this man. This _man_.

“Have you tried?” Sebastian murmured, his fingers closing over hers.

She floundered for a quip, for an argument, for an easy parry. But the warmth of his hand and in his eyes was bewitching, and Hawke could actually _feel_ herself calming as he tugged her closer. She ducked her head as she slipped out of the cramped passageway and slowly rose, _close_. So very, very close to the steady wall of his big body; her hand in his, her heart fluttering in her chest, her breath caught in her throat.

She felt like a bird, only she had no desire to take flight.

“I’m too afraid of what I’ll hear in the silence,” she finally admitted, voice coming out low and throaty. “You found peace, sure. But what if I find… _nothing_?”

“There’s nothing to fear in nothing,” Sebastian said, lifting her hand and pressing a warm kiss to the center of her palm. His eyes never left hers. “ _Nothing_ is just the beginning of something new.”

Hawke swallowed hard. “Says the choir boy,” she managed.

His lips quirked against her skin. “Says the choir boy,” he agreed, breath gusting hot. Then he slowly pulled back, letting her hand drop, and gestured around them. “We’ll wait here,” he said. “And wait for something new.”

“I _hate_ parables.” But she followed him deeper into the chamber, looking away from him and around the room for the first time since stepping inside.

It was…beautiful wasn’t sufficient to describe it. She wasn’t sure there were words enough to do it justice. _Otherworldly_ , maybe. Almost… _holy_ , and oh void, a few days trapped within the Chantry’s walls and already she was buying into the cult of the Maker.

Yet even Hawke, as cynical as they came, had to admit that the beautiful decay of this place was awe-inspiring.

Its ceiling was high and domed, painted a deep indigo. It was worn in places, gutted in others where rocks had crumbled to the base, and yet the decay only made the whole that much more impactful. As if she were witnessing the steady march of time with her own eyes. As if she had somehow stumbled into a place beyond her everyday life.

There were silver and gilt stars scattered across the arching ceiling, falling in glittering shadows down the rotunda’s many columns. An oculus sat like the eye of the Maker at the height of the dome, but instead of looking out into the sky—or the city streets, depending on where they were—instead all Hawke saw was darkness. A weak waterfall passed through the oculus, water drip-drip-dripping down into a mosaic pool in the center of the room. It splashed over the crumbling statue of Andraste, bathing her upturned face in tears.

Hawke slowly turned, taking in the faded murals and chipped mosaics gleaming like jewels in the dark. Taking in the quiet niches covered in flowering green vines and altars broken in half to reveal gleaming gold veins. A gentle wind blew down one of the many tunnels peppering the rotunda’s walls, and she could smell the salt of the sea, could feel its cool touch—could hear a sound like a sighing whisper, soft and sweet and comforting. As if the Maker himself were here with them. As if, running for their lives, they’d somehow managed to stumble into a place of perfect peace.

She completed her slow study of the forgotten chapel, turning back to _glare_ at Sebastian.

He laughed.

“As I was saying, Marian,” Sebastian teased, carefully setting aside his bow before reaching down to unfasten the wool blanket kilted about his waist. “There are worse things in this world than allowing yourself to be still.”

“If I hear a calling from Andraste,” Hawke warned him, only mostly teasing herself, “I _will_ run the other way.”

He stepped close to her, grinning as he pushed back her long dark hair—come lose from its braid sometime during the night. Hawke closed her eyes, loving the feel of his hands on her, breath catching as he so very tenderly draped the blanket over her shoulders. Its warmth, weight, settled through her body, making her heart give a helpless little lurch.

“You’ll be cold,” she murmured, eyes still closed.

Sebastian brushed his thumb between her brows, then leaned close to chase the mark with his lips. Hawke caught at his waist, shuddering. “I have never felt more at peace,” he said.

She understood that better than she wanted to admit. It was absurd that she should feel so…so…buoyant inside. Meredith was after her head. There were Templars even now scouring the Chantry maze, desperate to find her so they could drag her back to the Circle to take the brand. She was leaving her new home, leaving her friends, leaving her mother and brother and everything she had given her life for these last few years.

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to feel true regret, because _this man_ was at her side. This man that she hadn’t even realized had been missing from her life until he was filling it, undeniably good and pure and strong.

Hawke drew in an unsteady breath, dropping her head as she sank deeper into his arms. Maker take her hide, but she felt safe. At a time when the whole world was after her blood, Sebastian Vael, Starkhaven prince and former sworn Chantry brother made her feel like she had nothing to fear. _How was that even possible?_

“You’re some kind of demon yourself, aren’t you?” Hawke murmured. She was leaning against the solid wall of his chest, soaking in the heat and strength of him. One of Sebastian’s hands was pressed against the small of her back, keeping her close—the other cupped the curve of her skull. Every breath he took ruffled strands of long black hair. “You keep claiming _I’m_ the demon, but that’s just a smokescreen to hide the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” His voice was low; she could feel it rumbling in his chest.

She looked up, tipping her chin just enough to meet his eyes. “No one is this perfect.”

“I am far from perfect, Marian,” Sebastian said. His fingers were tangled in her hair. Their embrace was so incredibly intimate and yet felt natural, as if of course, _of course_ they had found themselves here, tangled together under the watchful eyes of Andraste and her saints. It had taken the end of her world to see him clearly, but now she couldn’t seem to look away. “In fact, I seem to recall you and Varric agreeing I was prissy and self-righteous on more than one occasion.”

Hawke shrugged a shoulder. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“Which is why I did not say anything at the time.” He paused, tilting his head. “Except to tell a rather long and boring parable of a holy sister and the sea in retaliation.”

She pulled back with a squawk, jabbing Sebastian hard in the ribs. “You _troll_!” Hawke sputtered, laughing at Sebastian’s sudden, wide, _wicked_ grin. “I _knew_ it. I _knew_ you were winding us up with all those stories. Aveline kept trying to convince me you were just a _holy man_ , but I _knew_ you were back there in your perfect armor with your perfect face deliberately driving us crazy with your perfect voice. You… You…”

She huffed, collapsing back against him again. Sebastian drew her close to his body, still smiling, big hands sliding down her waist to the flaring curve of her hip. Hawke was all too aware of the way they were pressed intimately together in a crumbling Chantry chapel, separated by only a whisper of fabric where sisters used to hold service an age ago; her body hummed in illicit pleasure at the thought. “I have changed my mind,” Hawke said, breathing in the scent of him. She dropped one hand to his chest, fingers splayed wide over the irregular beat of his heart. “I hate you.”

One of his hands lifted to cover hers. She looked up, startled, and was instantly lost in his eyes.

“No,” he said quietly, all traces of humor gone again. “You do not.”

“No,” Hawke agreed. She felt weightless, breathless, blooming with heat. “I do not.”

“What you said before,” Sebastian began—and she instantly flushed and glanced away, breaking the intense hold of his gaze. “Marian, what you said… I have to know. Did you… Do you…” He trailed off, though she couldn’t tell if the words had escaped him or if he was once again deferring because of _her_. Did he see the hot flush sweeping her cheeks? Did he think to bite back his question to save her feelings?

Or was he afraid she’d take this chance to deny him, harsh and cold, the way she had denied him just days ago. (A lifetime ago.)

_I have so much unthinking cruelty to make up for,_ Hawke thought, reading the race of his heart like braille with her fingertips. Then, the thought making her shiver: _Thank the Maker we will have more than enough time for that._

She waited, uncharacteristically patient, until he looked at her again—meeting her eyes with a heartbreakingly fragile hope. Hawke reached up to brush her knuckles along the strong curve of Sebastian’s jaw, putting everything she was into the words. “ _Yes_ ,” she said. Then, just to make sure he didn’t misunderstand:

“I love you, Sebastian.”


	15. Chapter 15

_I love you, Sebastian._

The words—her words, spoken in her perfect voice—nearly broke him. He felt something inside shatter, spiderwebbing fractures through his body, his heart, his mind as he stared into her solemn eyes.

_I love you, Sebastian._

It… It didn’t seem possible. And yet, oh Maker, he didn’t want to give her the chance to take it back. His heart was winging painfully in his chest and his whole world was reorienting around her and _Marian Hawke loved him_. Against all the odds and all the holy graces.

Behind her, he could just make out the statue of weeping Andraste. The cold marble eyes seemed to be locked on them; the ancient mouth almost appeared to be smiling.

 _Thank you_ , Sebastian thought, even as his gaze was dragged inexorably—inevitably—back to Marian’s. _Oh, Andraste, I have never been so humbled by so great a gift_.

 _Love_.

She _loved_ him.

She—

Marian reached up and lightly rapped her knuckles against his brow. “Are you all right in there?” she asked with mock-concern, one dark brow raising. “Should I call in a healer? It may take some time to smuggle him down here, but I—”

She broke off with a breathless laugh when he caught her about the waist, swinging her up into his arms. The heavy wool blanket tumbled to the floor as Sebastian, grinning, twirled her up above him like some fool in an Orlesian ballad—so in love he could barely stand it. Just _bursting_ with joy.

“ _You_ ,” he said, laughing with her. She tipped her head forward and dark tangles of hair fell about them in a waterfall; the rest of the world may as well not have existed for all he cared. All he saw—all he wanted—all he _needed_ —was right there in her eyes.

Was caught in the curve of her wickedly grinning mouth.

“I know,” Marian said, hands on his shoulders. He slowly began to lower her, loving the way she sank so easily against him, arms sliding around his neck. Her body raked his and he fought not to shudder; he could watch the way the heat unfurled in her by the sweep of her lashes and the way her lips parted in palpable welcome. _Close._ So close now, their bodies seamed together, her breath hot against his cheeks. “I’m a fiend.”

Marian’s voice was throaty; _his_ was rougher still. “A self-confessed fiend at that,” Sebastian murmured. He slid one hand down the line of her spine, all at once hyperaware of the single thin layer of fabric separating them. He had a mad image of grasping the front of her gown and ripping it open—of freeing pale, pink-tipped breasts and teasing the nipples into tight nubs as Andraste herself watched. There was something seriously wrong with him that the mere _idea_ burned his blood. “Does it make it any better that you’re so aware of your devilry?”

She rocked up onto the balls of her feet, mouth a tempting breath from his. “I don’t know,” she said. Her hips pushed closer in what had to be a deliberate tease, eyes going gratifyingly wide (though, he had to remind himself wryly, with Marian there was no telling what was truth and what was comedic artifice; that was part of what made her so impossibly charming) at the hot press of his growing erection. “You’re the man of the cloth. You tell me.”

“There are so many things I want to tell you.” He dropped his hand to the wide flare of her hips, holding her still. He caught her chin in his other hand, between thumb and forefinger, keeping her eyes locked with his. It was so easy for her to lead him astray from his very best of intentions, but… But he _needed_ her to hear this. He _needed_ her to understand. “To start with, Marian, you must know I am hopelessly in love with you.”

Marian flushed and canted her gaze away, embarrassed despite her own confession. “Pfft,” she tried to deflect, but Sebastian gently lifted her chin until she was meeting his eyes again—serious and intent. Sacrosanct.

“Marian Hawke,” he said, burr thickening over the words; they felt like a vow on his tongue, here in this holiest of places. “I love you. I have loved you for a very long time, and if you will allow it, I will love you until I die and yet still beyond the grave itself. I _promise_ you this.”

She let out a harsh little breath, shoulders jerking. Those blue eyes were impossibly bright, tears shining on her lashes. “Oh,” she said, voice quavery. Then she gave a little choking laugh. “Oh, you melodramatic asshole, come here.” Marian rocked up onto her toes, fingers catching tight in his hair as she yanked him down for a trembling kiss.

Sebastian immediately responded with everything he was. He slid an arm about her hips and dragged her close, cupping her jaw as he tilted her head for the perfect angle. Their lips met, brushed, parted on a shared breath; the heat of her tongue teased his bottom lip and he chased it with his own. _Slicking_ them together, exposed for one hot moment to the cool air before he pressed in and licked deep into her mouth.

Marian made a noise that rocked through him like one of her spells. She scrabbled at his shoulders, fighting to press closer, to have _more_ , opening as easily to him as if they had been made to fit together. As if he had been searching all his life for her, and he didn’t care, he _didn’t_ , that there was nothing more supernatural than mutual respect and affection and hormones blazing between them. It _felt_ like Fate, and he was willing to believe with all his heart that he’d been waiting, lonely and solemn and silent all these years, for this moment.

For this _woman_.

Marian.

“Marian,” he echoed, murmuring it into her mouth, exploring the depths of her with his tongue. He slid one hand down the line of her jaw, across her throat, fingertips trailing over the sharp relief of her collarbone. He slicked their tongues together over and over, shivering at the obscenely wet sounds of it, the echoing rumble of their bitten-off moans, as he trailed his fingers down down down the line of her sternum to brush a calloused fingertip along the full swell of her breast all the way to the tight peak of her nipple.

She broke the kiss on a serrated gasp, back arching up into the touch even as she stared at him with hugely dilated eyes. Her lips were parted, _wet_ ; void, but he wanted to bite at her lower lip, to suck away the sting as he pushed her gown aside and mapped her body with worshipful hands.

“Careful, Sebastian,” Marian said in a kiss-roughened voice. Her lashes swept down, lids gone heavy. He could actually feel her nipple tightening against his thumb. A single, curious swipe with his nail had her sucking in a breath and _shuddering_. “Andraste’s watching.”

Marian tipped her chin, long, unbound hair tumbling over her shoulders as she nodded back toward the oculus and the statue. The gentle waterfall filled the air with musical notes, underscored by a hundred distant echoes: single drops of water dripping into a pool, the wind whistling across stone, the faraway crash of waves.

Sebastian glanced up at the statue, then back at Marian. He began to grin slow and wide, feeling as wicked as he’d ever managed back in his wild boyhood. “Well,” he murmured, watching the way her color rose at whatever she saw on his face. “She had better brace herself, _mo cridhe_ , because I plan to do much worse.”

“Oh,” Marian breathed, followed by a sharp, “Oh!” when he caught his fingers in her hair and tugged her back into a sinuous arch. Sebastian ducked close, mouth finding the peak of her breast sharply outlined against her nightgown. Maker, the way she convulsed at the first tug of his mouth, nearly bucking out of his arms with a cry… Fuck, _fuck._

Sebastian tightened one arm about Marian’s hips to keep her from falling even as swirled his tongue over the damp white cloth. It skimmed her breast, already wet from his mouth, clinging to her flesh in a deliciously obscene way. He raked his teeth across the tight pucker and rode out her twisting cries—free hand lifting to cup her other breast, fingers twisting and tweaking with a rogue’s skill.

It had been _so long_ since he’d been with a woman, and he’d never been with anyone like Marian, but the instincts were still there, this time underlain by a humbling desire to pleasure, to please. He wanted to kneel before her in supplication. He wanted to hike her thigh over his shoulder and curl his tongue deep inside her body over and over and over again until she came shouting, voice echoing new life through these ancient crypts. Maker, how she would feel above him, his chin slick with her…

“Sebastian, Sebastian,” Marian was gasping, hips moving restlessly as he whispered all sorts of filth against her skin in his native tongue. It didn’t seem to matter that she couldn’t understand the words—she had to feel the way he wanted her. Had to know just how much he would sacrifice for her.

She was some kind of stone idol, a graven image, and he should turn away to save his own soul; but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

If loving her as much as he did was sinful, then he was content to live in sin.

“I want,” he said, straightening. He slid his hands over the wide flare of her thighs up to her curving waist. Fine cloth caught against his calloused fingertips, hem rising slowly, slowly, slowly. “Marian, I—”

“ _Yes_ ,” she said. She pressed in to kiss him once, hard—tongue stroking deep inside him, there and gone again in a teasing caress—before stepping away. There was a flush spreading across her cheeks, staining down the line of her throat toward her chest, and he watched with rapt attention as Marian caught the neck of her nightdress and pulled it up, up, and off. She tossed it aside in a flurry of white cloth, dark hair settling in a cloud about her shoulders and—

And by the Maker, she was beautiful.

The strange dappled light made a play of blue-tinted shadows across her skin. She was a blend of soft and hard—strong from years of fighting every Tom, Dick and Templar in Kirkwall, yet wonderfully curvy, _lush_. Powerful thighs led to curving hips to a gentle slope of a stomach to heavy breasts, tipped by tight pink nipples. The flush spread down her chest even as he watched, and if he hadn’t been desperate to touch her before…

Marian wet her lips. “Well?” she said, dropping a hand to her hip and cocking it, trying to sound playful; unaffected. He could read the nervous lie in her eyes, but the tilt of her chin was all teasing defiance. “Do you like what you see?”

He didn’t have the words to describe what he felt standing here, soaking her in. _Marian Hawke_ , Champion, guardian, savior, friend to the downtrodden. Strong and brave as any hero from the ancient tales, yet… Vulnerable despite the layers of tough sarcasm she wore as armor.

Vulnerable and open and hopeful and incredibly human in her fear.

Beautiful. Beautiful. So very bloody _beautiful_.

“Sebastian,” she began, fidgeting at his silence. “Um, so, if you don’t want— _Oh!”_ Marian cried out, words lost in a sucking breath when Sebastian suddenly stepped close and dropped to his knees before her. He caught her waist, keeping her upright when she swayed in surprise—drawing her close enough to press a fervent kiss to her stomach. Lower. Lower.

 _Lower_.

“Oh. Oh. _Oh_ ,” she breathed, grabbing hold of his shoulders as Sebastian brushed his mouth along the apex of her thighs. The rich smell of her was all around him, growing stronger with each hot breath. She was—Maker, she was digging her nails into his skin, hips pushing up helplessly, and Sebastian gave a heartfelt moan as he hooked his thumbs into the waist of her smallclothes.

“Let me,” he said, nipping at the soft skin just above the waistband. Over and over, tongue swirling across trembling skin. “Please, Marian, let me.”

She twined her fingers into his hair, tugging sharply, mussing it. He tipped his face to stare up the plane of her body, meeting those lyrium-bright eyes with his own. Her cheeks were _scarlet_ now, framed by waves of blackest night, and he wanted to worship her. He wanted to lose himself in her bit by bit until there was nothing left. “Maker, yes,” Marian said. “I’m—oh, fuck, Sebastian.”

He was already tugging her smallclothes down before _yes_ was fully out of her mouth, sliding the ( _slick_ , sopping wet; bloody void give him strength) material down her hips, her thighs, her legs. He let them drop and immediately hooked his rough thumbs into her folds, spreading her open for the first eager swipe of his tongue.

Marian cried out, voice rising sharp even as she swayed helplessly into the open-mouthed kiss. She dropped her hands to his shoulders to brace herself, gasping in erratic breaths as he spread her wide and teased along the slick folds. She tasted— _oh_ , incredible, salt-slick and sweet against his tongue. The way her thighs trembled made him want to unmake her—to _ruin_ her for anyone else.

 _Mine_ , Sebastian thought, stubble dragging against her inner thighs, tongue swirling around the steady pulse of her clit. _Mine, mine, mine_.

He wrapped his lips around her and sucked, thumbs sliding along Marian’s dripping cunt, and ah _Maker_ the noises she made. Gasping, heaving, broken sounds, her fingernails digging into the hard muscles of his broad shoulders as she rocked closer—grinding herself helplessly against his mouth, shuddering at each darting flick of his tongue. “Sebastian,” she said, then: “Sebastian!”

He wanted her to scream it; he wanted to take her apart. Sebastian pressed _closer_ , tongue dragging across her clit down down down to curl deep inside her body. He caught her hips when she swayed, and void but the sharp dig of those nails felt like heaven. Each furrow made his cock throb in response, as if even just knowing he’d walk away from this _marked_ by her was enough to make him come.

As if the taste of her was enough to make him come.

As if the sound of her cries was enough to make him come.

As if—

Maker, yes, it was, all of it, all of _this_ —all of _her_. Marian standing before him naked and trembling, the taste of her sharp against each flick of his tongue, _Andraste_ over her shoulder and all the saints picked out in gleaming mosaic tile circling ‘round and ‘round them. They were in the epicenter of an ancient church; they were the point where the sacred and the profane met, and if there was an altar, he would spread Marian Hawke across it and kiss every inch of her skin with utter worshipful devotion.

_I love you; I love you._

“Sebastian,” she gasped, nails digging furrows down his back. She was half-slumped over him now, legs shaking so hard they nearly gave out.

Sebastian made a low noise and slid one broad hand down the back of her thigh, urging it up—up—up to hook over his shoulder, her heel digging hard into the line of his spine. The change in position opened her almost obscenely wide for him and he groaned against her body, following the writhe of her hips.

It also put all her weight onto one shuddering leg, and Marian cried out as her knee buckled. She began to topple, but Sebastian caught her mid-fall—her thigh still hooked over one powerful shoulder, one hand at the small of her back and the other bracing her shoulders as he lowered her down slowly—carefully—tenderly—until she was sprawled across the fallen blanket, hair fanning out over ancient stone, back arched in sinuous welcome. “Sebastian,” she breathed. “I’m—”

“I know,” he said, and lowered his head in prayer.

Marian cried out again, grasping at the cold stone before tangling in the ends of the blanket. Her hips jerked, pushing toward the eager curl of his tongue; he caught her other leg when it tensed, biting gently at the tight muscle as he urged it over his shoulder. Both heels were digging against his back now, and her body was spread flushed pink and _slick_ before him. Sebastian dragged his fingers through her hot folds, following with his tongue, drinking in her cries. He circled her clit with the very tip even as he slid a finger into her body, curling against the tight clench. Then another, teasing her open as if she were a locked chest—a treasure—a—

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Sebastian,” she moaned, twisting beneath him, bucking, _writhing_. He could taste how close she was, could feel it humming between them like the prelude to a spell, and he redoubled his efforts, wanting nothing more than to feel her unravel against his greedy mouth.

 _Show me, mo cridhe_ , he thought, fucking two fingers into her grasping body, tonguing her clit over and over and over—falling into a pattern, a rhythm that had his own hips pushing against hard rock, searching, wanting, needing, fuck, _needing_. _Come for me_.

 _Come for me_.

_Come—_

“Sebastian!” Marian cried, scrabbling to grab his hair, nails biting into his scalp as she bucked into the next swirl of his tongue—then _shattered_ against him, around him, body convulsing with the sudden tidal wave. Sebastian grabbed hold of her and held on tight, riding out the gasping waves. He wanted to see her face when she fell apart, but he wanted to drive her higher still even _more_ , so he kept thrusting into the clench of her cunt, kept whispering words of praise into the scalding heat of her, kept _going_ until she was sobbing out desperate breaths—and even further, each swipe of his tongue slowly gentling as Marian slumped back against the stone, muscles loose, body flushed.

He slid his hand free and curled his tongue deep inside her one last time, riding out the stuttering hitch of her hips…then kissed his way down her thighs as he caught her hips and carefully lowered her legs to the ground, bracketing his body.

She turned her head to look at him, eyes heavy-lidded and blown dark. Her nipples were tight, breasts flushed a vivid pink. Her lips were parted on each shaky breath.

“Oh,” Marian murmured, watching as he lifted his hand and sucked away the last, glistening traces of her. There was a gleam of rekindling desire there at the sight, her tongue snaking out to brush her bottom lip as he tasted the last of her. “Oh _fuck_ Sebastian; please tell me you didn’t learn that in priest school.”

He choked on a laugh, wiping his chin before dropping his hands back to her; he could still feel her muscles jumping and quaking even as she sank into a languid afterglow. “No, Marian,” he said. “This was not part of the standard teaching.”

Her grin was wide and wicked. “ _Good_ ,” she said even as she hooked one thigh about his waist. Marian gave a light tug and he let himself be pulled closer—one hand slapping out to catch himself against stone near her head, hips resting effortlessly in the cradle of her thighs. He was still wearing his thin sleeping pants, but he could _feel_ the scalding heat of her against his aching cock. Slick. Hot. Flushed and swollen from orgasm, and so welcoming he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning in desperation. This was supposed to be about _her_ , not him.

“G-good?” Sebastian managed, sensing the power shifting between them like sand though his fingers.

“Mmmhmm,” she purred. Marian hitched her hips, hands ghosting across his back, his sides, down until she hooked her thumbs into the waist of his pants and _tugged_. He dropped his other hand to brace himself over her, shuddering at the first hint of cool air against his cock. She caught folds of cotton between her toes and tugged the sleeping pants down until they were puddled around his ankles and could be kicked off, leaving him naked. _Naked_ and aching and resting between the valley of her thighs. “Because if you learned _that_ from the Chant of Light, I might actually have to start paying attention at church.”

He dropped his head with a shaky laugh, unable to do anything but stare down the line of their bodies. Her breasts so close to his heaving chest; their bellies a mere inch apart; his cock flushed deep red, _eager_ , so near the welcoming heat of her cunt he could barely stand it.

Sebastian breathed in and out, clawing for some semblance of control even as Marian—the _demon_ —shimmied her hips against his. “Marian,” he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut at the starburst of pleasure as she wrapped her thighs around him again—seaming their bodies together. “Maker, Marian, I can’t… I want…”

“Shhh,” she said, trailing gentle fingers across his cheek and up into his hair. Sebastian turned his face into the caress, shuddering; his lips parted in unnamable emotion at the whisper-light brush of her lips across his lashes. “I want you too.”

This wasn’t supposed to be about him; this wasn’t supposed to be about _this_. He’d only wanted to give her pleasure, not take any for himself. And, Maker, but they didn’t have anything to protect her from the consequences of this act. If he gave into his driving instincts and took her now, she might…

She might have his _child_ , and oh, it was unfair how his heart broke open at the thought.

“Sebastian,” Marian said again, cupping his cheek. He allowed her to lift his face toward hers and opened his eyes at her silent urging, meeting that soul-bright blue gaze. All the sharpness and sarcasm had bled out of her, leaving nothing but raw emotion— _love_. Oh Andraste, how they loved each other; he had no idea how it was even possible, but he would hold on to it for as long as he was able. “It’s all right. I want you; please.”

_Please._

He let out a shaky breath and leaned down, sealing this new thing between them with a kiss. With a promise. “As you wish,” he murmured into her mouth—and shifted his hips, pressing into the welcome clench of her body inch by mind-breakingly perfect inch.


	16. Chapter 16

“As you wish,” Sebastian breathed against her mouth before slowly—so, so achingly slowly—pressing inside her inch by careful inch.

Hawke swallowed back a moan, fingernails digging into broad shoulders at the delicious burn. She was no virgin, but Maker it had been a long time. It had been even longer since that joining had been more than a momentary diversion—an itch to be scratched or an hour to be filled. This, this _being in love,_ this wasn’t like her. She’d always been so careful with her heart, but now it felt like he was teasing it from the fragile cage of her breast with each murmur of her name, said soft, as if in prayer.

_Marian. Marian._

By the void, he would unmake her.

She dragged her fingers up into Sebastian’s dark hair and kissed him hard, swallowing his words convulsively. It was all…too much, not enough, confusing and confounding and exactly perfectly _right_. It didn’t make sense that she’d become so overwhelmed by this former man of the cloth—this _prince_ —but it seemed like everything Sebastian did broke down her walls more and more until she found herself _here._ Gasping beneath him, body welcoming him, _heart_ welcoming him, ready to run away and be his, his, his…

His _bloody princess_. Maker's furry nutsack.

Hawke wrapped her legs around his trim waist, pushing up impatiently. She gave a breathless laugh at his stuttered groan, breaking the kiss just long enough to look up into his eyes. Sebastian was braced so carefully over her, weight resting on his straining arms—and oh, what a picture he made. Mussed and flushed and dripping with sweat, incredible blue eyes blown black with desire.

Cock pushing deep and hard inside of her.

“Sebastian,” Hawke purred, dragging her nails along his scalp. She shuddered when his hips hitched forward, pleasure blooming hot in her belly. She wanted him to lose control and take her with all the violence she knew rested in his perfect-gentleman’s chest. “Look at you.” Her voice was husky, but she managed to keep the teasing lilt by strength of will, even as he oh-so _slowly_ bottomed out inside of her.

Their hips finally pressed snug together, her cunt all but fluttering around him—she could feel the involuntary pulse as renewing need filled her, making her want to rock forward. Her breath was coming in quick pants and her limbs felt heavy and tight—tight—tight, as if her skin had drawn taut at the first kindling of desire. As if she were an overripe fruit seconds from bursting.

She wet her lower lip, watching the way _he_ watched her. Loving the dip of his lashes as he looked down the press of their bodies to where they were so intimately joined, then back up to meet her eyes. He looked dazed, dazzled, a lock of hair falling messily into his face and something indescribably intense caught in the set of his jaw.

Hawke smoothed a hand across his cheek before brushing back that errant lock of hair. She bit her lip and hitched her hips up once, testing his response—nearly immolating from the inside out when he rocked back _hard_ , breath catching in something very close to a growl.

_Maker_ he was beautiful.

“Look at the choir boy now,” Hawke murmured throatily. She gripped his hair again, tangling her fingers in thick dark strands and tugging hard—yelping when he caught her around the hips and surged up into her, hips _slamming_ against hers, a firestorm of pleasure erupting through her body. It was so sudden, so intense, so perfectly unrestrained; nothing she could have imagined but everything she ever wanted. “ _Sebastian_.”

“Fiend,” he laugh-growled, shifting up onto his knees. He caught her around the hips, fingers digging into the soft curve of flesh, dragging her up until her shoulderblades were pressed against stone, back arched in a dramatic bow. Her hair tumbled around her like spilled ink, and she’d never felt as beautiful as she did then, watching herself in the fervent reflection of his eyes as Sebastian leaned over and caught her mouth in a lingering kiss.

His thumbs swiped roughly over her hipbones, the only warning he gave before pulling nearly out of her and then _thrusting_ back again, driving into her deep. Hard. Perfect. She arched into it, heels digging into his lower back, hands scrabbling at the blanket and slick rock. She felt, _he_ felt, oh Maker, Maker—Hawke’s breath caught on a broken cry when Sebastian thrust into her again, again, so thick it almost ached. She wanted to claw her way up and bite at his shoulder—drag her nails down the working muscles along his golden back—but it was all she could do to hold herself together as he shifted, sitting back on his heels and dragging her up with him, catching her full weight in one hand (and fuck, but it shouldn’t be so hot to see such visceral proof of his strength) as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

“Look at _you_ ,” he breathed, falling into a natural rhythm as her black hair tangled around them, her breasts pressed tight against his chest—the slick glide of their bodies, the rasp of skin on skin, was as undeniable as the placid face of Andraste herself, watching over their frantic coupling. Hawke cast a quick glance toward the statue, feeling herself flush deeper as the thumb of his free hand brushed over a tight nipple before sliding down down down her quivering belly. “Maker, you’re so beautiful. How are you so beautiful?”

Sebastian’s voice was so thick with brogue she barely understood him, but there was no mistaking the clever twist of his archer’s fingers, calloused and self-assured, as they pressed between the join of their bodies and found the swollen nub of her clit. Hawke jerked up, gasping, pushing into his arms at the first burst of pleasure. It was almost too much again, but oh, _oh_ , it was so good—that deep ache flowing through her with each glide of his cock, with each counterstroke of his fingers. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and dragged in a shuddery breath, feeling like she was seconds away from flying apart. “Sebastian,” she moaned, not even sure herself what it was she wanted. To come against the steady press of his fingers? To feel him lose himself inside of her? To, to, just, _shatter_ , hyperaware of the way they came together in this holy place, the act somehow sacred despite the wonderfully filthy sounds, the slick glide, the harsh pants of their breaths, the—

“Andraste _fuck_ ,” Hawke keened, head falling back when he dragged a knuckle across the ache of her clit, knees clenching tight around his waist so she could fuck herself against the steady thrust of his cock. “Just, fuck, Andraste, fuck.”

“Shh, Marian,” Sebastian—the _bastard_ —laughed against her sweat-drenched hairline. “Watch your mouth. We are in a church, you know.”

She’d never felt more justified in dragging her nails down a lover’s back before. She’d never felt more delight in a guttural growl, found as much pleasure in being grabbed by the waist and held _hard_ and _still_ and _fucked_ —loud enough that the slap of their bodies drowned out her cries, perfect enough to send her spiraling up up up ever-closer toward orgasm.

_Close, close_. Maker, but she was so close, and she dug her nails into his skin and strained against him with needy pants. She could feel her body coiling up in preparation for the fall, could feel that tug deep in her belly as he dragged calloused fingertips across her clit again— _again_ —finding a counter-rhythm to the steady drive of his gorgeous body.

She wished she could _see_. See the way her body opened to welcome him, see the slick glide, see—

Sebastian lifted his free hand—trusting her to keep her balance, ankles locked at the small of his back—and sank eager fingers into the dark tangle of her hair. He tugged just shy of too hard ( _just perfect_ ), dragging her head back so she could look him in the eye.

And oh, _oh._ Those beautiful eyes, blown so wide with arousal, focused so intently on her. Like she was the only woman in the world; like she was somehow infinitely precious; like she was every graven image of Andraste herself, and bloody void, she’d never realized before that she’d thrill at the thought of being worshipped—inch by inch, her body a temple, her heart on fire.

“I love you,” Sebastian said, thrusting deep, driving her higher, higher.

Hawke gasped in a panting breath, catching his face between her hands. His perfect, beautiful, _beloved_ face. “ _Yes_ ,” she said, unable to manage more. Trembling seconds from the edge, wanting this man— _this man_ , with all his complexities, his contradictions, his endless shining honor—more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Wanting a life tangled in his arms, loved beyond reason.

He tugged at her long hair again, pulling her head back—pulling her shoulders back—urging her on until she relaxed into an exaggerated arch; belly pressed tight against the clench of his abs, hair spilling across the stones below, breasts tight and aching and exposed. Vulnerable.

“Oh,” Hawke breathed, entire body aching in anticipation for— _fuck, yes_ , the scalding brush of his tongue, followed by the slick swirl about the tight clench of her nipple. The, the, the score of a gentle _bite_ as he caught her nipple between his teeth even as he rubbed his thumb in a quick circle about her clit, and something about the pose, something about the blend of vulnerability and power (because, oh Maker, she could feel him losing control, unraveling in his need) hit her _hard_. Hawke jerked and keened, flaring with heat—light bursting from her fingertips as she came with a broken cry. It filled the ancient sanctuary with a shower of sparks, shining gold and bright as the sun. Blinding, gorgeous, heat pulsing through her as Sebastian held her tight and carried her through the trembling ache.

It seemed to go on forever, her body pulled taut, her breath lost on a keening gasp as each wave crashed over her again and again and again. Finally— _finally—_ the light faded and Hawke slumped back, losing her grip on him—entire body going lax at the lingering starbursts of pleasure.

Sebastian shifted quickly, pressing a wide palm across her shoulderblades, catching her before she could fall. He shifted forward again, following the slow drag of her body—sucking hard at the swell of her breast as he urged her down against the spread blanket again. His movements were bordering on frantic now, thrusts going erratic. He dragged slick fingers from the heat of her cunt and caught the peak of her other breast between them. She slumped back, boneless, sated, thighs spread wide in welcome as she watched him surging toward his own orgasm.

Maker, but the way his broad shoulders worked, the play of muscle beneath bronzed skin was dizzying. The way his hips pushed forward urgently, the way he gasped against her skin, kissing every bit of her he could reach—wending his way up from her breasts across her collarbone to her neck, the drag of stubble sending another shower of sparks through her shuddering body…

She tangled her fingers in his messy hair and dragged him up for a wet kiss, all hunger and slick drags of tongue and desperate, _desperate_ moans as his cock drove into her again, again, _again_ , the rhythm faltering, the thrusts gone wild and needy, the sound of skin on skin beautifully obscene in the quiet of Andraste’s sanctuary as—

Sebastian cried out into her mouth, one palm slapping against rock as he held himself still over her and _came_. His whole body trembled with the ferocity of it, muscles standing out in hard relief, eyes squeezed shut, hips pressing tight against hers. And _oh_ , she could feel the flood of heat, could feel every inch of him deep inside of her, filling her. It should have been alarming—what a _stupid_ thing to do when she had no intention of being a mother just yet—but…

But _Maker_ , it felt like nothing she’d ever experienced, and in this moment, she couldn’t regret it.

“Sebastian,” Hawke murmured against his lips, stroking her fingers through his hair. She kept him cradled in the valley of her thighs, holding him against her as he jerked and shook through the aftershocks. The noise he made, deep in his chest, caused her heart to tug in response, arms sliding around his neck as he slowly, slowly relaxed against her.

There was a moment of silence. Neither moved. Neither breathed. It was as if they were both afraid of breaking this perfect stillness—this almost holy devotion. She felt wicked and blessed, all at once, sprawled out beneath a statue of Andraste in the Maker’s own Chantry, cradling her lover between her thighs. _Wet_ with his seed. So in love she didn’t know what to do with herself.

“Thank you,” Hawke finally murmured, staring up into the oculus. Though whether she was thanking the Maker or Andraste or Sebastian or just the wide, uncaring world, she had no idea.

Her words seemed to break the spell, in any case. Sebastian stirred against her, rising up to rest his weight on his forearms—cheeks still flushed and expression dazed. She smiled and brushed her knuckle along his jaw, lifting up to give him a kiss. “ _Thank_ _you_ ,” Hawke repeated against his lips. And, because it couldn’t be said enough: “Love you.”

Sebastian actually _shuddered_ at the words, one arm dragging across her shoulderblades, pulling her into an embrace. He kissed back, warm and open and endlessly giving, tongue a gentle brush against her own even as he carefully slid from her body. She felt an unexpected ache in response, a loss, but he kissed her through it—on and on and on—riding out the peak of that loss until she was humming in pleasure again, melted against the strong wall of his chest.

When Sebastian finally broke the embrace, he smiled down at her, then pressed another kiss between her brows, so soft she almost didn’t feel it. “You are so beautiful,” he said.

In this moment, she felt it. “What happens next?” she asked, meaning…she wasn’t even sure what she meant.

He brushed back her hair. “We take things one step at a time,” he said. Slowly, carefully, he rose to his feet, offering Hawke a hand up. She took it with a flush, climbing to her feet—swaying a bit when her rubbery knees wanted to buckle. Sebastian must have taken that moment of weakness as an invitation; he slipped an arm around her waist and lifted her easily, cradling her like something precious against his chest.

Hawke caught at his shoulders. “What are you doing?” she demanded, trying to sound more annoyed than she was. “I’m not some swooning maiden, remember.” But oh, _oh_ it was nice to be carried across the cold stone, nice to be brought to the pool at the base of Andraste, water running in rivulets down her gleaming cheeks from the oculus high above.

Sebastian just grinned at her, wading slowly, carefully into the mosaic pool. He shifted her within his arms as the water rose around them, freeing a hand to dip into the pool, letting it trickle over Hawke’s body—cleaning away sweat and come and lingering smudges of dirt from their wild escape through the tunnels. “ _And I am no shining knight_ ,” he echoed her words from what felt like an age ago. Could it really only have been a matter of days? “I know that well, Marian.”

She cleared her throat, shivering at the cool splash of water between them. “I…may have changed my mind on that point,” she admitted. At his arched brow she growled and shoved at his shoulder, laughingly wriggling out of his arms in a splash of water. Sebastian grinned, stepping back as she rose to face him—waist-deep in the pool, arms crossing over her breasts to hide a reflexive shiver. _Maker’s balls_ , but it was cold. “So you came down here all the time when you first arrived in Kirkwall?”

“Aye. Often enough.” He crouched until the water flowed over his shoulders, hands falling to her waist again as if he couldn’t keep himself from touching her. “I was restless, angry. I wanted nothing that the Chantry had to offer me. At first, these catacombs were the only escape I knew.”

Sebastian grinned again, white teeth flashing against dark skin. “I pretended I was a treasure hunter,” he admitted. “Or a bandit stealing away from the city guard.”

Hawke laughed, crouching down into the water with him, letting its gentle eddy pull her back into his arms. Feeling weightless, trouble-free, she wrapped her thighs around his waist again and let herself be caught against his chest. “Varric would never believe you had such an imagination on you,” she teased. “But to think—in a way, you foresaw the future. Well,” she had to concede, “sort of. Since it’s Templars on our trail, not the guard.”

He slid one hand up her spine in a warm caress. “But I _have_ found Kirkwall’s greatest treasure,” Sebastian said, studying her face with that look in his eyes again—that loving, worshipful heat that made her toes curl.

Hawke bit the inside of her mouth, pleased and uncomfortable and happy and unable to let the moment last. “What? Did you find something hidden in my twat?” she teased.

His mock-offended face was red enough to reveal very real embarrassment, but he was laughing, too, catching her in a kiss that stole her breath within seconds. Hawke grinned against Sebastian’s lips, twining happily around him—bracing herself as he stood with her still clinging like a limpet. He caught her rump in his big hands, squeezing gently as he took a step, then another, toward the edge of the mosaic pool. Water sluiced down their bodies, leaving their skin clean and prickled with gooseflesh.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Hawke hummed into the kiss, eyes drifting closed. She’d never been one for contentment—life had always been too much of a struggle for that. Running from town to town as an apostate; fleeing the Blight; surviving Kirkwall against the odds; dodging Meredith’s attention. It seemed like no matter how many bright, happy moments she could point to in her life, she’d never felt quite like this— _blissful_ and languid in her joy, even knowing that Templars were somewhere far in the dark maze of tunnels, trying to find her.

Let them look. With this man by her side, she had nothing to fear.

Sebastian slowly—carefully—knelt, keeping her cradled in his arms. He leaned down, laying her across the blanket as if she were infinitely precious, kiss lingering slow and sweet and just warm enough to chase away the chilly night air. He slid one hand down the curves of her body, stirring banked sparks, before settling in against her; the kiss ended only when he turned his face to brush his lips over her cheeks, her chin, her nose, her brow. “You should sleep, _mo cridhe_ ,” he murmured, brogue thickening. She loved the sound of his voice most of all. “It will be a few hours yet before your friend’s ship is ready. I will keep watch.”

Hawke nestled deeper in his arms, shivering at the rasp of skin on skin. “I’ll stay awake with you,” she said. She was tired—and every muscle in her body felt languid and warm—but she didn’t want to miss a moment of this night. Of this tectonic shift, old priorities crumbling away as her city of chains was snatched from her hands, and a whole new world stood waiting. Just…somewhere over the horizon.

She pressed her lips against his shoulder. “Tell me about Starkhaven,” Hawke said, voice throaty with everything she was losing, learning, gaining.

He cleared his throat, as if sensing the serious turn of her thoughts. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

It was strange, to be a refugee again—to be fleeing from a place she’d come to think of as home, leaving everything she knew behind to face a dawning across the sea. Last time, that new beginning had been soured by fear and loss. This time…

She shifted in Sebastian’s arms, tilting her head to look up at his profile. He was watching the statue of Andraste, lips parted on a breath. If she spread her fingers across his chest, she could feel the steady pound of his heart. “Sebastian?”

He looked down, a small smile toying at the corners of his mouth. “I had never thought I could truly go back,” he admitted. “I believe it is just hitting me now that…when we land on its shores, my family will have justice. True justice. And I will be _home_.” Sebastian lifted a hand to cup her jaw, thumb brushing across her lips so incredibly gently. “I look forward to sharing my home with you, Marian.”

Within those words, she heard an echo, clear as day: _I look forward to sharing my life with you._

Hawke shivered, allowing herself to be gathered deeper into his arms, heartbeat tripping in her chest until its steady beat matched his. “I…yes,” she said, and it sounded like a vow on her tongue. “I look forward to that as well.”


	17. Chapter 17

They stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for hours—days—an eternity. Both _forever_ and, somehow, nowhere near long enough.

And what sort of dolt did it make her that she could think something like that and actually mean it? But curled against Sebastian’s side, listening to the echo of water hitting its waiting pool, feeling his strong arm around her middle and glowing with warmth at every soft brush of his mouth, she felt…

…she felt like she was floating, unmoored by time or space. An eternity really _could_ be passing, and she would be no more aware of it than she was of the fear that had chased them down to this sacred place.

_Sacred._ Maker, the choir boy really was rubbing off on her.

Hawke turned her head, pressing her face against Sebastian’s outflung arm. She was completely surrounded by him, both of them bundled up in the ends of his blanket. It should have been uncomfortable—the rock beneath her cold and damp, the slow waterfall pouring from the oculus sending a fine mist over their interlocked bodies—and yet she had never felt safer, warmer, more content.

_This_ , she thought, muzzily. Lost in the simple joy of warm man and cool air and freedom just beyond the next horizon. _This is what home feels like._

As if responding to her thoughts, Sebastian slid a calloused hand down the dip of her waist to her hip, stirring behind her.

“’bastian?” she murmured, still drifting.

“Hush, _mo cridhe_ ,” he said in a low whisper—and all at once, she was perfectly, painfully awake.

“What,” she began, then bit her lower lip, swallowing back the words and going very still, straining to catch what his keen archer’s ears already had. The waterfall seemed frustratingly louder than it had a few moments before, now that she was trying to hear beyond it. The crash of distant waves, the call of sea birds, the steady _drip drip drip_ of water against stone and small rocks scattering as…

As…

_Clank_.

Hawke startled up with a gasp at the all-too-familiar sound, dark hair tumbling around them in messy snarls. Sebastian rose as well, moving gracefully into a crouch— _listening_ with everything he was, head cocked and eyes fixed on the darkness of the open doorway. An eternity seemed to pass as they waited, holding their breaths for the next sign, the next—

_Clank._

“Sebastian,” Hawke whispered, reaching for him.

He closed his hand over hers and gently squeezed. “We should dress,” he said, calmly, as if the Templars weren’t all too terrifyingly near.

Hawke scrambled to her feet, shoving her hair back as she scanned the chamber for her nightdress. It lay puddled several feet away, crumpled like a ghost in the dark. She snatched it up and yanked it over her head, hissing out a breath at the _coldwetclammy_ feel of it against warm skin. All the places where Sebastian had touched, kissed, seemed to chill as she tugged it hurridly down.

For his part, Sebastian was calmly lifting the blanket and refolding it into a modified kilt. He’d pulled on his sleeping pants, but his chest remained bare—bronzed-dark in the torchlight, rippling with muscle, perfect enough to draw her eye even as her heart began to pound rabbit-fast in her chest.

_Clank clank clank_. The metal-on-metal grind of plate mail was drawing nearer. Wasn’t it? Andraste’s tits, but she couldn’t tell. The strange honeycomb nature of the catacombs confused sound and senses. They could have been half a mile away, or just around the corner. Sebastian froze in place, head cocked, kilt limp in his hands. His blue eyes seemed very far away, lashes flickering as if he were somehow visually tracing the maze that would lead the Templars right to them. Right to…right…oh _Maker…_

“We have to go,” she said, as loud as she dared. Hawke took a step forward, hand lifted toward him. “Sebastian…”

He looked at her, and she could _see_ her own fear reflected back in his eyes. Wherever they were, the Templars truly were close. They’d bumbled their way through the Chantry’s underground maze, and they would be bursting into this safe place—into _their_ safe place—at any moment, swords raised and brand ready and and and—

She must have made a noise, scared-animal and small in the back of her throat, because Sebastian stepped toward her immediately. He caught her around the waist and pulled her close, pressing a hard kiss to her temple. “Shh,” he whispered against her hair, breath warm. Comforting. She’d never thought of herself as someone who needed to be soothed, but _oh_ it felt wonderful when he slid a hand down her spine, soothing nonetheless. “Shh, Marian, it is all right; they will never find you.”

“But,” she began, one hand pressed over his steadily beating heart.

“ _Never_ ,” he said—like a vow—and she closed her eyes and let herself sink into him just for a moment, grateful for his strong arms and endless faith. Had she ever mocked this man for believing so strongly? Had she ever claimed he _wasn’t_ some shining knight from legend? She was ten kinds of fool, and she planned on making past unkindness up to him one kiss at a time for the rest of their lives. But first… Sebastian turned his face, pressing his lips against her temple again, one broad hand cupping her skull. “I need you to run,” he said.

She pulled back, startled. “What?”

Sebastian’s gaze was infuriatingly steady. “I need you to run,” he said. “Follow the sound of the sea. If Varric’s ship has not yet arrived, stay hidden by the mouth of the crevasse and wait until you see its sails. If it is there—”

Hawke balled up a fist and punched his perfect princely shoulder. Hard. “What the bloody _fuck_ , Sebastian?” she demanded. “I’m not going to leave you here to fight them alone.” She didn’t bother with a whisper this time. All the fear seemed to have burned out of her at the first flare of fury. “I’m staying here to face them, with you.”

He just set his jaw stubbornly. “ _If it is there_ ,” he continued, ignoring her glare, “I want you to set sail _immediately_. Do not wait for me; I can make my way to Starkhaven on my own, and—”

Sebastian caught her fist when she would have struck his shoulder again. He lifted it, kissing the knuckles, breath warm and sweet and and and _stupid_ and heroic and awful and wonderful. There were tears burning in her eyes and she angrily dashed them away with her free hand, hating the way new ones streamed to take their place. “I take back every nice thing I ever thought about you,” she said. “You are an idiot and an asshole and I am _not_ leaving you behind.”

The metallic clanking was louder now, more omnipresent—echoing all around them, as if the Templars had somehow managed to surround their position. And fuck, maybe they had; maybe she’d let herself fall into their trap. Maybe the time she’d spent with Sebastian had been a mistake.

But no, no, she didn’t really think that. If this really was the end, she wanted to meet it with the memory of his kisses on her tongue.

And he was still talking, the honorable idiot. “—know this place better than anyone,” Sebastian was saying, eyes locked with hers, expression earnest. “We cannot hope to face them all head-on, but I can lead them through the tunnels, strike unawares, get them lost and turned around and helpless while you make your escape. Then, when it is safe, I can follow quickly with no one the wiser.”

“Yes, fine,” she said. Even though she much preferred the direct route—pissing into the wind, Varric liked to say—there was wisdom to striking from the shadows. “ _We_ can lead them through the tunnels. _We_ can pick them off.”

He was already shaking his head. “You do not know the catacombs any better than they do,” he said. Infuriatingly logical in the face of her fear. “You will become lost. Besides, they have a vested interest in making sure I survive the night. The same cannot be said for _you._ ” Hawke opened her mouth to protest hotly, but he simply pressed a kiss to her palm, then the pad of her thumb, stealing her next breath. The _asshole_. “Please trust me when I say I believe in your ability to fight and win no matter the odds, _mo cridhe_ ,” Sebastian said. “Please believe that I would trust my life in your hands a thousand times over—that I would follow your lead, as I have done many times in the past. But I know the Chantry; you do not. I know how to strike fast and silent and disappear before they can react; you do not. I was made for this kind of battle. Let me do this for you, as you have done so much for me.”

“Sebastian,” she said. Just that—just his name. Because even though she didn’t want to admit it, he was right. _Damn_ it, he was. She _didn’t_ know this place. She would become just as lost as the Templars if she and Sebastian separated, and if they didn’t…if she insisted on staying by his side…

Hawke could read the truth he was kind enough not to say aloud in those brilliant eyes of his. _If I stay by his side_ , she thought, guilt and anger and hopeless loss curdling all the joy left inside her. _If I insist on fighting with him, I could easily get him killed_.

On his own, Sebastian would be silent, half-lost to darkness. A rogue in every way. His arrows would find their mark and he would be able to disappear again the way she’d watched him, Varric, Isabela, do time and time again.

Hawke?

Hawke would be a lightning rod, calling the attention of every Templar in the catacombs the moment she let her first spell fly. On the battlefield, she was a tempest. Here, she would only be a liability. If she insisted on staying, her life would not be the only one lost—and if she demanded he run with her, there was no telling whether either of them would escape. It all came down to a roll of the dice—whether the ship would be waiting for them or not. Was she willing to wager Sebastian’s life on that?

“Maker damn it, Sebastian,” Hawke said, crumbling. She reached up to cup the back of his skull, pressing their foreheads together. “ _Damn_ it.”

“Tch; such language. We are in the Maker’s house, _mo cridhe_ ,” he teased gently, stroking his fingers over the snarled mess of her hair. Then, more seriously: “You know that I love you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut against the hot prick of tears. “And I love you,” she said. “I don’t want to leave you here. I don’t want to go on without you.”

“I know,” he said, simply. He didn’t have to say more; they were both coming to realize (Hawke with a sickened stomach, her whole body turning to lead) that it was inevitable. This was where their paths diverged.

She drew in a ragged breath, broken by the sob she kept struggling to swallow back. _Damn it damn Maker fucking damn it._ “You had better lead them a merry chase and come back to me,” she said, but the threatening words sounded so very small in her throat.

“I will find you,” he promised, pulling back just enough to kiss her brow, the tip of her nose, her mouth. He lingered there, kiss going slow and warm—melting everything but the knot of terror in her stomach as time slipped away from them and the Templars moved ever-closer. As her Starkhaven prince and all the pretty dreams they’d built together over the last few hours began to crumble between her fingers.

_Damn. It._

Finally, reluctantly, Sebastian pulled back. He caught the other end of the kilt and wrapped it around her shoulders, adjusting the fall and knotting it expertly into place. She wanted to protest, but his brow was set in determination, so she bit her tongue and simply let herself drink him in—this one last time.

_No_ , Hawke told herself fiercely, struggling to hold on the certainty that theirs was a story with a happy ending. _You’ll be seeing him soon_. _We’re going to Starkhaven; we’re making a life together._

She caught his wrist before he could pull away, squeezing gently. “I love you, Sebastian,” Hawke said again. She needed to be able to tell him again and again, for as long as she was able. For always.

He brushed a calloused thumb across her cheek. “And I you, my Marian,” he said. Sebastian pressed one last kiss to her mouth, but he didn’t let it linger. He was pulling away long before she was ready, reaching for his bow and slinging the arrows over one bare shoulder. Muscles rippled with the movement, and he looked so…so _beautiful_ , so fierce, as he prepared to defend her.

“My knight,” she murmured, then covered her face with her hands, feeling like every idiot in Varric’s blasted romance serials. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, peeking through her fingers at him.

Sebastian just grinned and pulled an arrow free. “I do not know what you are talking about… _my lady_ ,” he teased, stepping back again, again—slowly fading into the darkness. “Be careful,” he added before he was gone completely, voice drifting from the shadows as they swallowed him whole. “And remember: follow the sea.”

“The sea,” Hawke echoed. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her middle as their safe haven went quiet again, save for the distant echo of waves and the steady fall of water. The rhythm that had been so peaceful just minutes before now reminded her of sand slipping through an hourglass—the soft _wsk wsk_ had her tensing.

Somewhere not far away came the scuff of a heavy footfall and the clank of metal. Templars, a score of them, searching through the dark maze for her, with only Sebastian standing between them and their prize. Hawke had to fight the urge to go chasing into the darkness after him; instead, she turned to face the statue of Andraste one last time. Tears ran down the figure’s upturned stone face, pouring from the oculus. Her robes, once pure white, had been stained by age and neglect.

Hawke lifted a hand to her, palm-out, in supplication. Feeling like ten kinds of fool but needing to do this anyway. “I don’t pray,” she said bluntly. “I _won’t_ pray, not even now. I just have to trust that you realize he is the best of us—he is the best man I have ever met—and if you let him die, the world will lose one of its brightest lights. And…” She swallowed, curling her fingers into a fist. “And I _swear_ , if you do not defend him after all that he has given you, I will raze your fucking Circles to the _ground_. Think on _that._ ”

Andraste didn’t answer, expression serene, distant, tears running unchecked down her cheeks to the pool below. Hawke reached up to swipe away her own tears and dragged in an unsteady breath. She hadn’t really been expecting an answer, had she? Gods didn’t answer the likes of her. “All right then,” she said, turning away from this place where she’d been so very happy; it already felt like an age ago. “The sea.”

It wasn’t as easy as he’d made it seem. _Follow the sea_ was a fine idea if she were Merrill, who could find her way through Sundermount’s winding paths as if traipsing after some unseen guide. Even Carver was better at this sort of thing than Hawke—but she set her jaw and grabbed the torch, moving about the circumference of the room as she strained to catch the source of those distant crashing waves. It was…distracting, to say the least, when somewhere not far away came an alarmed shout and, “Bloody well been _shot_!” followed by, “There he is!” She almost turned back despite common sense— _Sebastian needed her_ —before viciously forcing herself to refocus.

“The sea,” she snarled beneath her breath, scrubbing away more tears, furious with herself, with the Templars, with the whole bloody world. “Find the bloody fucking sea, Marian.”

She paused as she passed one of the many yawning doorways. This hall was just as dark as the others, but she swore the crash of waves seemed to be louder. Uncertain, she took a shuffling step into the corridor and lifted the torch—she didn’t breathe until the flame flickered on the next salt-tinged breeze.

From behind— _somewhere_ —came another cry, followed by another, almost like the baying of hounds. Her heart squeezed in silent pain, but she set her jaw and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, moving down the path to whatever waited for her at the end. It felt like the worst kind of betrayal—it felt like she was leaving a part of herself behind—and, Maker, when did Sebastian become so essential to her own happiness? When did the future start to seem so _grim_ without him?

A clash of steel; a shout; a shiver working its way down her spine.

A sense of sick betrayal building in her chest with each stumbling step.

Still, she followed the winding path, stopping now and again to strain for the sound of crashing waves. They grew louder and louder with each minute that passed. Eventually the broken tile and flagstone gave way to rougher stone, and the walls began to close in, irregular in shape; like the cave this path was turning out to be. The torch flickered out somewhere midway down the path, but Hawke just tossed it aside. Already, the air was lightening, losing some of its deep dark as she made her way up up up to the surface again. By the time she finally broke free, reaching the narrow mouth of the cave—a crevasse, hidden cleverly amongst jutting rocks—the night seemed almost too bright around her, morning hovering somewhere just an hour or two away.

Hawke lifted a hand, shielding her eyes as a sudden blinding light swung her way. She gripped her staff, ready to defend herself…then relaxed at the familiar: “Ho there, Hawke!”

_‘Bela._

“I’m here!” Hawke called back, voice a small, pathetic croak. The light swung away from her face to illuminate the rocks below her, and she waited for black motes to swim out of her eyes before carefully picking her way across their slick irregularities. It helped to focus on keeping her footing; it helped not to think of Sebastian somewhere in that dark warren behind her, facing the men who had come for her head.

It helped not to think at all.

She swallowed, digging her nails into the meat of her palms, and carefully carefully made her way down to the beach. Isabela was already leaping ashore from the prow of a shoreboat. Four men sat two abreast, manning the oars; the brilliant (bespelled?) lantern-fed spotlight had swung down to shine bright circles in the surf, abandoned.

Isabela grinned and put a deliberate sway in her step, making sure to toss her head just right as she came to join Hawke on the beach. The long, trailing end of her feathered cap bobbed fetchingly.

Hawke almost managed a return smile. “I like your hat,” she said through numb limps as Isabela strutted near.

Her voice must have been a sorry thing; Isabela slowed, exaggerated sway fading as she studied Hawke’s face, brilliant eyes searching her expression. Hawke tried a smile—then, when that failed, dropped her gaze and tried to drum up something to say: something light and easy and _glad to be alive_ and and—

“Oh, _Hawke_ ,” Isabela said, stepping in close and sliding her arms around Hawke’s middle. She pulled her unresisting into a warm embrace, one hand settled in the small of Hawke’s back, the other soothing up her spine. Comforting, gentle, _mothering_ , in a way—and maybe it was that, or maybe it was the growing price of her freedom rearing up and kicking her in the teeth, or maybe it was just the memory of the way Sebastian looked at her, but all it took was a soft, “Shh, kitten, it’s all right,” and Hawke was pressing her face into the other woman’s shoulder with a strangled sob.

The first hiccupping cry nearly ripped its way out of her, and she shuddered against it, grip on ‘Bela tightening. Isabela just murmured quiet nonsense and stroked Hawke’s mat of tangled hair, soothing the way only she could.

“Come on there, Hawke,” Isabela murmured, stroking circles between her shoulderblades. “Come on. Press your face between my tits if you think it’ll make you feel better; I’ve got enough men willing to lick away any snot-streams you leave behind.”

Hawke choked on a laughing-sob, clutching her friend tight. She was aware of the half-dozen oarsmen watching them, restless to be gone; she was even more aware of the steady tick-tick-ticking of time passing. It was dangerous for this ship to be so close to Kirkwall’s walls. The captain was taking one hell of a risk for her, and delaying the inevitable only made each moment more dangerous. She could hear Sebastian’s voice in wending its way through her thoughts: _I want you to set sail immediately. Do not wait for me._

Isabela pressed a soft kiss to Hawke’s temple as one of the men awkwardly cleared his throat. “Come on,” she said, gentle. She was already turning, arm snug around Hawke’s waist, half supporting her, half tugging her inexorably toward the waiting shoreboat—and the waiting ship whose sails would take her far from Meredith’s madness. “You will feel better when you are safely aboard.”

“No,” Hawke wanted to say; _tried_ to say. But the word got all tangled up in her throat. It was all she could do to _breathe_. _No, no, no._

Her legs felt numb as Isabela and one of the oarsmen helped her wade from shin-deep waves over the high edge of the boat and safely down onto a bench at the front, by the bright lantern. Isabela hopped in easily behind her, fingers of one hand sinking into Hawke’s hair in the gentlest caress even as she scanned the beach, searching for—

For what? Templars? Kirkwall’s guards? _Sebastian?_

“Big girl’s kept her end of the bargain,” she said, mostly to herself. Isabela smiled down at Hawke gently before crouching by her side, wiping away a tear with her thumb. Hawke hated how weak she must seem, but her fighting spirit had taken her as far as it could; she would never have been able to leave that beach without him if ‘Bela hadn’t been there to half-carry her. “No guards on the walls,” Isabela continued, as if Hawke were even listening. “And Varric’s arranged a cushy little situation for us on board this ship. Oh, you’ll like it plenty. A few days into sailing to Rivain, you’ll—”

“Starkhaven,” Hawke interrupted. The oarsmen were already pushing back from shore. The waves sent them casting about, bobbing like a cork. “We have to go to Starkhaven.”

Isabela blinked. “ _Starkhaven?”_ she said. “But...Maker’s furry nutsack, Hawke, _why_?”

Hawke didn’t answer. Instead, she looked back toward the shore—toward the crevasse, hidden to the uncertain eye against the rocky cliff-face—toward the Chantry with its Templars and hidden catacombs and unlikely heroes.

“Oh… _balls_ ,” Isabela sighed, watching Hawke’s face. Reading only Maker knew what there. “A man will ruin a good woman faster than nug-piss spoils wine. _Fine_ ,” she added when Hawke just looked up at her, steady. “We’ll go to bloody Starkhaven. But if they’re all like your prince, I swear to the Maker, I’m kidnapping you and going somewhere halfway decent after.”

“They’re not,” Hawke promised, hope warring with fear, with the howling conviction that it wasn’t too late, that she could, should, _must_ defy all common sense, all wisdom, all logic and go back for him _now_. It didn’t matter that she’d become a lightning rod for every Templar in the place; at least then, their attention on her, Sebastian would be safe.

“Hawke,” Isabela said, fingers curling around her wrist as if she could sense the mad impulse thrumming beneath Hawke’s skin.

Hawke shook away those tantalizing thoughts. _You really would get him killed_ , she thought, hating the weight of truth in it. _Trust that he’ll make it. Trust that he’ll find you. Trust him, as he has always been willing to trust you._ “It’s true,” Hawke said instead, watching as each stroke of the oars took her farther and farther away from the city of chains. “There’s no one in the world like Sebastian Vael.”


	18. Chapter 18

Hawke stayed below deck for most of the voyage, curled in a miserable ball of fear and hope and shame.

She had left him. No matter that it had been the right call, no matter that he had a stronger chance of making it out alive without her— _she had left him_. Trapped somewhere in that warren of tunnels, lost in the dark with bloodthirsty Templars, fighting to keep _her_ free.

The bravest fucking man she’d ever met, and she hadn’t even realized just how much she needed him until he was all but lost to her. Willing to defy his god, his vow, the very foundation of his life for _her_ …and willing to die if it meant seeing her free.

A man like that didn’t come more than once a century, Hawke thought, staring up at the low ceiling with burning, aching eyes. He couldn’t; the world wouldn’t survive so much bloody selfless perfection.

“Sebastian, you asshole,” she murmured, squeezing her hands into fists. She felt sore and aching, entire body wrung out with grief. She wasn’t sure she had any more tears left in her. “You had better come back to me.”

There was a scuff just outside the cabin door, then a soft rasp of knuckles. Hawke quickly rolled over, back to the door, and curled her knees up protectively. She scrubbed her drying cheek against the pillowcase and stared holes into the roughhewn wall as the door creaked open behind her.

A long beat of silence reined, followed by a quiet sigh and another creak of the door. Hawke waited, breath held, listening for the tell-tale jingle of Isabela’s necklace; the drum of her bootheels against the floorboards. There was nothing but silence—silence and the creak of the ship, the surge of the sea—yet somehow she knew she wasn’t alone. She could _feel_ the pity on the air.

“Stop staring at me,” Hawke muttered, squeezing her eyes shut.

Isabela sighed. “Oh, Kitten,” she said. There was a solid thump, followed by another—boots hitting the wall as ‘Bela shucked them off, no doubt. _Then_ came the soft clink of metal, followed by the dip of the mattress just behind Hawke’s hip. She was holed up in the captain’s quarters, so the bed was big enough for two if they wriggled around just right. Isabela patiently pinched Hawke’s hip until she begrudgingly made room, letting her friend slip in behind her and wrap her arms around Hawke’s middle.

A soft kiss pressed between her shoulderblades made a well of tears rise again—and holy shit, how much could one pathetic mage cry before drying up inside?—and Hawke huffed out a hitching breath, both comforted and angry at the show of comfort.

Couldn’t Isabela just leave her to be miserable?

“No,” Isabela said, kissing behind her ear. There was nothing sensual about the heavy weight of her body against Hawke’s, or the way her arms wrapped snug about her waist. If anything, the soft brush of Isabela’s mouth felt remarkably…motherly, as if somehow Leandra had been snatched from the Amell estate and brought here to offer her own endless comfort. Maker, but that would have been wonderful. “I thought you knew me better than that, Hawke. I’m never going to leave you to be fucking anything.” She paused, lips quirking against Hawke’s skin. “Well. _Maybe_ I’ll give you a few minutes of peace whenever you fancy to fuck the choir boy, but that’s just about all I—”

Hawke shook her off hard, wriggling around to sit up. Her hair fell in a frightful tangle about her, as wild as the sea itself; she felt like death warmed over, and for a moment, she thought she might strike the coy smile off Isabela’s face. “How can you even _joke_ ,” Hawke began, trembling with rage and a fresh surge of grief—of self-loathing—of guilt deep enough to carve a groove into her heart, right next to the scar Bethany had left behind.  “How can—”

‘Bela just sprawled out indolently, dark brows arching. “I think the real question is, Kitten,” she said, “if you think you love old Andraste-crotch so bloody much, why are you so eager to give up on him?”

Hawke sucked in a breath, furious—and _shoved_ her off the bed.

“You _harpy_ ,” she snapped, nothing but glad when Isabela went tumbling down in a sprawl, the bed too close to the ground for her preternatural grace to save her. She was popping up in an instant though, eyes flashing and lips quirked; _pleased._ Like she was happy to see the fire blazing through Hawke again. “Get out; I don’t want to even look at you.”

“You have to sometime,” Isabela countered. “You have to look at yourself too. Or do you plan to stay curled under covers and _sniveling_ for the rest of your life?”

Hawke kicked out again, but Isabela danced away, _laughing_. Full-throated and amused and the worst bloody friend of all time. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hawke said, rising up onto her knees. The whole world seemed to dip and zoom around her, and Andraste, how long had it been since she’d eaten? She couldn’t remember. “You don’t know what… You don’t know how I…”

 _What this feels like. How_ I _feel._

She saw Sebastian standing there in the fitful torchlight every time she closed her eyes, bow strung and eyes burning bright and ready to die for her if that’s what it took to secure her freedom.

And. She. Had. Let. Him.

Hawke looked away from Isabela’s softening expression, her shoulders hunching forward once more, every part of her crying out. _You have to look at yourself too_? Oh, no. No. If Sebastian didn’t make it through this—if Sebastian died the way Bethany died, on her watch, the blood on her hands—she would never be able to meet her own eyes again. She would never feel whole again. He had made his choice, but she had let it happen, and she deserved every bit of misery she felt for putting him in that position to begin with.

If only she had never gone to that bloody church.

“Oh, _Hawke_ ,” Isabela sighed, moving to sit on the mattress next to her. Hawke allowed the other woman to snake an arm around her waist, tugging her against the soft give of her body. Isabela smelled like rum and leather and the sea; it shouldn’t have been so comforting. “I know _exactly_ how you feel. If you think there’s a single one of our little band of fuck-ups who doesn’t, then you haven’t been paying attention.” She pressed her lips to Hawke’s temple, one hand soothing down her tangled hair. “We’ll figure it out, Kitten. We’ll get you safely to Starkhaven, and we’ll send word to Varric; he’ll have answers, one way or the other. And if it’s not an answer you can live with…”

There was a certain pained humor just beneath Isabela’s words, as if she really _did_ understand the well of fear and self-loathing Hawke had found herself in. “I can always use a second-in-command. You’ll shed your old life, you’ll lose yourself in the sea, and someday you’ll find a way through to the other side.”

Hawke sighed and dropped her head against Isabela’s shoulder, eyes closing. “I’d make a really shitty pirate,” she mumbled, letting out a hitching breath.

Isabela kissed the crown of her head. “It’s all right,” she said. “Shitty pirates still get handfuls of booty.” She paused, silence only broken by the creak of the ship and slap of the waves and men calling out to each other above decks. “That was a sex joke, Kitten,” Isabela added helpfully. “Just in case you’re too lost in your self-flagellating swoon to—”

“I got it, ‘Bela,” Hawke said, and she only didn’t shove her off the bed again because she was too damn comfortable to move. The gentle sway, the endless clang of the bell, the—

Both women startled to awareness at the same time, that bell—that insistent, tolling bell—enough to have them clambering to their feet. Isabela cursed and sprinted for the door, slamming it open.

“What is it?” Hawke called, stumbling after her. She was still dressed in her white nightgown and _both_ of them were barefoot, but that didn’t seem to matter when stacked against the sheer chaos drifting from overhead. There was yelling, and bells clanging, and people running. Someone was calling for the captain, and Hawke heard what sounded suspiciously like swords being drawn.

“Don’t bloody know; _report!_ ” Isabela snapped, surging out onto the deck with the fury of a hurlock. It didn’t seem to matter that she wasn’t _actually_ the captain—the deckhand lurched to immediate attention, letting ‘Bela snatch the spyglass from his grasp.

“Pirates, ma’am,” he said, pointing helpfully. “Off ‘ta starboard and gaining fast.”

Hawke moved toward the edge of the ship—careful to avoid the buzzing hive of energy as sailors went flying up the two heavy masts like mini dragons, unfurling sails partially lashed against a punishing wind. She squinted, black hair snapping about her face, and scanned the horizon until, until…

“Bloody fucking void,” Isabela groaned, spotting the ship at the same time as Hawke. Nothing more than a speck on the horizon, but _growing_ with each second that passed, massive black sails full to the wind as if bespelled. “Of all the bloody fucking— Why aren’t our colors up?” she demanded, whirling on her heel and stalking up to the quarterdeck to square off against the _actual_ captain. The two of them had been at each other’s’ throats since they’d boarded—even Hawke, curled up down below, could hear their roaring fights over the scream of the wind. _A half-bit nug-for-brains ninny who has no business captaining a ship this fine,_ Isabela was fond of muttering as she crawled into bed each night. _I’ve got half a mind to stir up a mutiny and take it from her._

Here, now, she looked more than ready to turn that idle threat into reality, color high and eyes spitting fire. “Fly our colors, you mush-brained Ferelden dog-fucker. They think we’re a common merchantman and will be on our asses before we can convince them otherwise.”

The captain glowered back at her, just as ready to go for the throat. “They may think whatever they wish,” she said in a haughty, halting Orlesian accent. “The _Shady Lady_ will outrun any ship who dares try to give chase.”

“The void it will,” Isabela said. “They’re _gaining on us._ ”

“Get below deck, if your nerves are not up to the challenge,” the captain said with a sneer. “I—”

Isabela let out a sharp breath. “Oh, to void with this,” she said, before swinging her arm back and clocking the dimwitted captain _hard_ across the jaw. The other woman staggered back, nearly overbalancing, her second jerking one hand toward his captain and the other toward his sword. “Hawke!” Isabela called out, pushing back her flashy new coat to reveal twin blades. She slid them free with a twirl, eyes on the captain and second. “Get your head out of your ass, love; we’re staging that mutiny after all.”

 _Really_ , Hawke mused in the stunned seconds it took for her to reorient herself to her new reality, _I should have seen this coming._

She couldn’t be angry, though. Staring down an uncertain crew of pirates—some potential allies, others enemies—another pirate ship bearing down on them, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill. Maker, she hadn’t felt this alive since leaving Kirkwall’s shores.

Which was why Hawke gladly stepped back from the edge of the ship and lifted her hands, lightning sparking between her fingers in a brilliant arc. “All right, then!” she called, making her voice carry across the chaos of the ship. “You heard the new captain. We’re taking over, and anyone who has something to say about that can expect a bolt up the ass.”

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t surprising how few of the pirates took her up on that offer. Only a handful of the captain’s most loyal men lurched toward Hawke, blades drawn, lips pulled back from mouthfuls of rotting teeth. Hawke was aware of ‘Bela on the quarterdeck behind her, fighting blade on blade with the captain and her second; she spared them little more than a glance, trusting that Isabela had the upper hand, even as she squared her bare feet on the slick deck and let the first arc of lightning fly.

 _Crack!_ It zapped the first pirate, sending him staggering back with guttural moan before arcing to the next. Hawke kept careful leash on the spell, aware that they were on a floating tinderbox in the middle of the Waking Sea; the last thing they needed was for one of her spells to catch fire to the sails.

 _Crack! Crack!_ She sent another bolt leaping, baring her teeth at the visceral thrill of seeing her attackers fall aside. Maker, but she’d needed this. She’d needed to _fight_ , ever since she and Sebastian had fled the Templars deep into the Chantry’s underground. ( _Don’t think of that now; focus_.)

One of the pirates tried to slip around her, but Hawke pivoted easily, sending him flying back—and over the side of the ship into the frothing waves—with a wave of her hand. It didn’t matter that her staff was still down below; the spells were coming easily, naturally, quickened by her fury and the need to push back against the onslaught. She turned to face her next opponent, ready.

The fight both stretched and narrowed time the way pitched battle always seemed to, and Hawke lost track of time in the middle of the fray.

Somewhere along the way, someone grabbed her wrist. She twisted, turning, using a trick Varric had taught her to slip free and send a blast of ice into his ugly pock-marked face. “Suck on the Maker’s cock,” she snarled, feeling like a wild thing. Andraste’s teat, but she must have looked it, too—white nightgown snapping in the breeze, dark hair loose and flowing, shadows beneath her eyes and a grimace on her face. An animal, ready to rip the throat out of anyone who tried to touch her, tried to hurt the people she loved, tried—

“Hawke!” Isabela cried out in warning, and Hawke ducked just as a blade went flying toward her face. It stuck in the quarterdeck wall behind her, vibrating deep into her bones. She scanned the main deck and quietly cursed. A few more of the pirates were turning from the sails and joining the fray, tugging free their sabers as they crept forward.

Hawke edged back. _Shit_. “’Bela, how are things going up there?” she called. She lifted her hands, letting the sparks dance between them again in warning. But… _void_ , yes, they were dimmer now. She’d used up more mana than she should have with the showy new magic; flinging men around like rag dolls was wonderful fun, but she hadn’t practiced the skill long enough to know how to do it _efficiently_. She was getting tapped out fast.

Too fast.

Far, far too fast.

“ _’Bela_?” Hawke sent a lightning bolt arcing toward one of the pirates, knocking the blade from his hand. He hopped back with a curse, cradling his arm against his chest—but there was open fury in his eyes as he glared at her. “’Bela!”

“A little…” Isabela cursed, and iron clanged on iron just behind her. Hawke fought the urge to swing around, or clamber up onto the quarterdeck to help. The captain and her mate may have been putting up far more of a fight than either had expected, but she had to trust that Isabela could handle it. She _had_ to—if she turned away from the crew for even a moment, there was no telling what—

_Boom!_

The ship shuddered; the air fractured. Hawke could taste fire on the breeze. Holy shit, was that Qunari blackpowder?

“ _Isabela_!” she snapped, sending a volley of bolts toward the men. Loyal pirates, fellow mutineers—it suddenly no longer mattered. She just needed the fight to be over _now_. If Qunari blackpowder was somehow involved, she didn’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity.

Bloody void. She was half-tempted to take a running leap over the side of the ship and _swim_ to Starkhaven.

There was another rumble, like thunder. Distracted, Hawke glanced away and was very nearly caught along the side by the flash of a blade. She could hear shouting all around her, and terrible echoing _booms_ , and the creak of wood and blood pounding in her ears as she bared her own teeth and fought _back_ with everything she had. Hawke slung spells, digging deeper and deeper into her reserves as all-out chaos swept the ship. Isabela dropped down beside her, spattered with blood and visibly limping, wearing a brand new captain’s hat with a fancy Orlesian feather bobbing at its crest. She shot Hawke a quick wink before disappearing in a cloud of smoke—reappearing just a few seconds later at the other end of the deck, blades dancing.

The ship swayed and pitched beneath her feet. The world took on a bloody tinge. At one point, body flagging, mana nearly completely depleted and not a drop of lyrium in sight, Hawke grabbed for a downed man’s blade and brandished it at her latest opponent. She was staggering back, pinned between the quarterdeck wall and its railing. Blood drenched her side and flowed into her eyes, nearly blinding her. Her breaths came in painful pants.

It was some consolation that the pirate looked little better, limping his way toward her—but she was no knight, no matter how fiercely she chose to fight, and it would take very little for him to overpower her if it came down to a contest of blades.

She glanced up toward the edge of the quarterdeck, searching for a bit of rope she could use to haul herself up, or perhaps a well-timed dragon come to save her hide yet again—but there was nothing above her and nothing below. The spell she tried to call sputtered in her fist, and fuck, fuck, it was going to come down to physical strength after all.

“I’ll…have you know,” Hawke said, lifting the borrowed and bloody saber with both hands, “you’re not the first man who thought he could get the best of me.”

“Stop fighting, pretty one,” he countered with a flash of rotted teeth. Hawke was going to have _very strong words_ with Varric about landing her and Isabela with men like these. “The sooner you give in, the sooner we can finish blasting that ship into pieces, the sooner we can get on to better things.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been enjoying the chance to bloody some pirates. For instance—” She feinted, slashing out, letting him deflect her blade (and nearly send it tumbling out of her hands; void, he was strong) before swinging it back.

He barely danced out of the way in time, hissing a surprised breath. When his eyes rose to hers again, they sparked with sick fury. “Oh now, you _bitch_ ,” he growled, lifting his own blade for what looked to be a killing blow. “I’m going to cut you neck to cu—”

The pirate jolted once, hard, with a sound like a burst melon. Hawke watched in silent shock as the tip of an arrow erupted from his filthy throat, blood bursting across the quarterdeck walls in a hot spray. He gurgled, dropping his sword and fumbling at that little iron tip just kissing his throat, twisting around as if he could pull free to face his attacker.

A second arrow struck him in the throat with a sick _thump_ , another spray of blood spattering across the floorboards. His breath gargled in his throat and he swayed once, twice, before crumpling at Hawke’s feet—eyes staring wide and shocked up up up at the Starkhaven prince balanced effortlessly on the prow of the swiftly-approaching ship.

He was backlit by the sinking sun, dressed in loose dark leathers and a billowing white shirt; every rougish dream come to life. His hair was mussed by the wind and his eyes were bluer than the whole Waking Sea as Sebastian slowly lowered his bow—and smiled.

“I am sorry to take so long, my Marian,” he called over the raging battle, unconcerned. “It took me longer than I would have liked to find a suitable ship.”

 _A suitable ship_? Sebastian Vael was standing at the prow of a pirate ship easily double their size, black sails snapping in the breeze, hull smoking from _Qunari blackpowder_ —as comfortable and self-confident as if he’d been born into piracy. Maker, maybe he had missed his true calling.

For what felt like the first time in her life, Hawke couldn’t speak, heart nearly bursting with a riot of emotion. Gratitude and joy and shock and hope and disbelief and and and—everything, _everything_ , all of it spilling through her like water as she watched him sling his bow over his shoulder and move to one of the grappling lines his men were now using to hook the two ships together. He snagged a free line and swung over effortlessly, dropping down onto the boarded ship as easily as kneeling to the Maker in prayer.

She covered her blood-spattered face with one hand, letting the cutlass drop from deadened fingers, and _stared_ as the man she’d left to die—the bravest man she’d ever known—the man she _bloody loved_ —came striding through the chaos of a full-fledged pirate battle, as pristine as if touched by the Maker himself; as gorgeous as any dream she’d ever met deep in the Fade.

“That’s it,” Hawke whispered to herself. Then louder, as Sebastian approached: “That has to be it. I somehow fell tits over ass into one of Varric’s novels, haven’t I?”

“Well,” he said, rumbling brogue so welcome she almost burst into tears at the sound. He stepped in close, brushing back a wild strand of black hair with infinite tenderness. “If so, I hope it is one of the salacious ones.”

And somehow _that_ was enough to burst the dam. Hawke gave a whooping laugh, caught and broken somewhere down the middle into a choking sob. She flung herself at him, bloody hands grabbing the front of his pristine white shirt, dirtying him up; and wasn’t that, she thought semi-hysterically, as much a metaphor for their whirlwind romance as anything? She pressed her face against his neck and breathed in the clean, familiar, _wonderful_ scent of him. Her whole body quaked with the force of her laughing sobs—the pitched battle seemed somehow so very far away.

“You’re alive,” she said, over and over, muffled against his skin. “Oh Maker, you’re alive, you’re _alive,_ you’re here and you’re alive.”

And Sebastian—holding her, arms tight around her as if he never planned on letting go—pressed his face into her filthy tangle of hair and whispered: “ _Ma cridhe_ , knowing you were out there—nothing could possibly keep me away.”


	19. Chapter 19

They made good time to Starkhaven, Isabella's new ship ("The _Harpy_ ," she explained with a wolfish grin, "named after her captain's closest friend, of course,") limping along behind. Its hull had been damaged during the fight and its topmast needed refitting, but a week or two in port and it would be like new again.

“And an hour or two alone with me,” Isabela added, snagging Hawke about the waist and tugging her toward the huge merchantman’s cabin door, “will do the same for you. Say goodbye to your wild-haired, bedraggled lady love, Andraste-crotch!” she called to Sebastian. “I’ll bring her back polished up fine as any prince could need.”

He looked up from the captain’s table, sextant in one hand, quill in the other. He was still so handsome in his loose white shirt that Hawke’s pulse _raced_ in response. “Aye, of course,” he said, watching as Hawke was spirited away. Then, just as the door was closing: “Wait. What did you call me?”

Isabela cackled, catching Hawke’s hand and dragging her toward the aft stairwell. “I can see why you’re so intent on being in love with the Choir Boy,” she said, weaving them around sailors and benches and crates, down down down into the hold. “He _is_ terribly fun to tease. Does he give as good as he gets?”

Hawke let herself be guided, laughing a little, breathless. She was still so _happy_ that she couldn’t bring herself to be annoyed, not even as she was pulled into the belly of the huge ship, where stacked crates of goods (legal and otherwise) waited to be sold at this port or that. “Oh, he certainly gives as good as he gets,” she said with a warm half-smile. It wasn’t until Isabela looked over her shoulder, eyebrows dancing, positively _leering_ , that Hawke caught the double entendre.

She paused…then sighed and shrugged. “That too,” she said, and the two of them stumbled into the depths of the hold, giggling together like schoolgirls.

It wasn’t until they’d reached the very last level of the hold that Hawke thought to ask Isabela what she was about. “Are you bringing me down here to sacrifice me to demons?” she asked. “I hate to break it to you, ‘Bela, but you already have your boat. You don’t need to sell me out to Envy _again_.”

Isabela just scoffed. “You’ll bite your tongue before I bite it for you. And here I was trying to be a good friend for you, arranging for the _only_ privacy you’ll find on this ship.”

“Privacy for…?” There was lantern light just up ahead, hidden by a towering row of crates. Isabela simply squeezed her fingers and tugged her into its golden glow before letting go, turning and spreading her arms wide to encompass the little tableau.

A copper hip-bath sat in the center of a ring of three lanterns, water threatening to splash over the rim with every dip and sway of the ship. Several crates had been broken free and dragged into the light, their seals decrying armor, silks, jewels, and…rum. Of course. An unopened bottle sat perched on top of a crate Isabela claimed as her seat, and various jewel-toned dresses had been thrown haphazardly over another. Gold filigree winked in the swaying light.

Hawke froze, looking around, all at once choked up. She hadn’t been letting herself think about the embarrassment she would face stepping foot on Starkhaven soil with a rat’s nest of a braid and a filthy nightgown the only things to her name. The thought had been too overwhelming, but this…

This meant she wouldn’t have to. This meant she could take Sebastian’s hand and stride up to the palace gates and not feel like the desperate beggar she knew herself to be.

“Oh, _‘Bela_ ,” she said, touched. It was so like Isabela to be able to read the emotions Hawke kept firmly stuffed deep inside.

Isabela cracked open the rum and took a long swallow. “Come on then, Hawke,” she said, gesturing. “Show me your tits. We’ve got a couple hours at most before we hit land, and you won’t scrub the filth off you just standing there gaping at me.”

_That_ was also so very like Isabela. No moment was so sincere it couldn’t be trampled with a bawdy joke. “So you want to see my tits, then?” Hawke said, mentally shrugging and reaching for the hem of her nightgown. She yanked it over her head in one fluid motion, balling up the ruined cloth and tossing it aside with a flourish. The smallclothes came next, kicked into a corner without a hint of shyness, her messy black braid falling defiantly over one shoulder.

Isabela wolf-whistled playfully.

Hawke gave a little bow, grinning wide before turning to climb into the tub. She was already working free her tangle of hair, fingers pulling through the snarls as she sank back into the (cold, but at least not sea-salted) water and let the grime of her recent adventure be washed away.

“You know,” Hawke said, ducking her head back to let her hair float in inky mermaid tendrils about her body, “now that you have a ship of your own again, you’ll have no excuse not to visit me all the time.”

Isabela snorted. “I’ll be too busy plundering the seas to pay much attention to _you_ ,” she said, but the warmth in her voice merely underscored the obvious lie. “Besides, you’ll be spending all your time playing princess, defeating your rivals, and fending off Anders’ letters requesting you declare Starkhaven a haven for all mages to even bother with the likes of me.”

_A haven for all mages_. The idea made her stomach clench in excitement, even as _playing princess_ made her break out in a cold sweat. Dear Andraste, was she actually ready for this?

“I’ll find time to pull together a royal armada and track you down,” Hawke said, pushing aside the bubbling emotions. _Later_. She’d worry about all that _later_. “Just see if I don’t.” She sat up, wringing water from her hair, taking the time to scrub herself as clean as possible. Isabela just hummed a noncommittal reply as she lounged back and admired the show, pretending to leer when Hawke finally rose from the tub.

Water sluiced down her blessedly clean body as she took the time to squeeze her hair as dry as possible before beginning to finger-comb it into some semblance of order. “So I’m assuming you don’t have the captain’s permission to open any of that,” she finally said, jerking her chin toward the piles of gleaming silks and bits and bobs Isabela had pillaged.

The pirate just shrugged. “If he has a problem with it, he can try to catch me,” she said, taking a final swig of the (stolen) rum before hopping down from her perch. She set the bottle aside and moved to sort through the clothes, grabbing one and flinging it at Hawke’s face. “Or if your Andraste-crotch feels a twinge of conscience, he can pay for it. Toss around money to impress the lot; you’ll get used to that, now that you’ll be some kind of prissy _royalty_. Use that to wipe down and bind up your hair,” she added at Hawke’s rolled eyes. “It isn’t your color.”

“If we’re being honest, I didn’t think ahead to the whole _royalty_ part,” Hawke had to confess, even as she followed Isabela’s instructions. She stepped out of the tub, using the expensive dress to wipe herself dry before binding up her long hair into a makeshift turban. “I’m just a Ferelden farmgirl; I know shit-all about being around fancy people. I barely get invited to any of the good parties at Kirkwall, and I bloody well saved _their_ asses.”

“You get invited to all the _best_ parties at Kirkwall,” Isabela corrected, tossing her a pair of the silkiest smallclothes Hawke had ever seen. Their edges were delicately embroidered with bluebirds and bees and branching vines, the handiwork alone worth a handful of gold. “Mostly because _I_ invite you. Kitten,” she added, voice firming. Hawke looked up as Isabela crossed the creaking floorboards to her, a dress thrown over her shoulder. She reached up to cup Hawke’s face, meeting her eyes intently. “You came to Kirkwall a refugee and left it a Champion,” she said. “You charmed the likes of Fenris _and_ Anders _and_ Merrill, and somehow made them get along despite themselves. You’re the bloody hero of Varric’s bloody epic, and you managed to convince _me_ to value friendship over self-interest for once in my gorgeously selfish life.”

Then she winked.

“Not to mention, you sweet-talked a sworn Chantry brother out of his trousers. I’d say odds were on you taking Starkhaven by storm—and anyone who tries to stand in your way’s going to find themselves in a sorry state of affairs, because nothing can stop Marian _Fucking_ Hawke.”

Hawke reached up to curl her hands around her friend’s wrists, tearing up despite herself. “Marian _Fucking_ Hawke, huh?” she asked, voice husky. “I like the sound of that.”

Isabela snorted and pressed a smacking kiss between her brows. “You’d better. Now let’s finish getting you spit n’ polished so we can show off Starkhaven’s new favorite princess, hmm?”

Hawke groaned, but she slithered obligingly into the smallclothes and allowed Isabela to dab perfume at her neck and wrists; sandalwood-vanilla rose around her in an intoxicating cloud, making her feel at once sensual and powerful as she lifted her arms and slid into the dress Isabela had chosen, letting the whisper of silk drift across her curves.

Its hem was a deep jewel blue, like the heart of the ocean. A slit ran up one side, giving her freedom of movement, and the color dipped and flowed as it traveled up her thighs, her hips, growing subtly lighter and lighter until it reached the complicated twisting straps criss-crossing her shoulders, leading into a daringly low back and long, elegantly fluttering petal sleeves that bared each arm in flashes of skin.

Isabela crouched and laced Hawke into delicate golden sandals before slipping tooled golden bracers about her wrists and upper arms. A half-corset of fine golden filigree was fitted about Hawke’s waist, tightened until she felt _powerful_ —ready for war.

She laughed. “I’d question your taste,” she said as Isabela tugged her hair free and began sectioning it off into a complicated braid, bits of gold and deep blue ribbon woven within, “but considering my idea of _fancy dress_ is a mage’s robe covered in pockets, I don’t think I have room to talk.”

“Don’t worry, Kitten,” Isabela reassured her. She gave Hawke’s hair a hard tug, fingers flying over the intricate pieces as if she spent her days dressing ladies at court and not lounging about the Hanged Man, pantsless and fancy-free. “I’ve got nothing but your best interests at heart.”

“I know,” Hawke said quietly, feeling powerful, beautiful, _loved_ —by her best friend, by the man willing to throw everything aside for her safety, by the companions who had fought to see her here. By the time Isabela was stepping back to admire her work, Hawke’s eyes stung with a fresh brimming of tears.

“Well?” she asked, clearing her throat around the emotion caught there. She spread her arms and gave a little spin, letting the billowing silk skirt ripple like the storm-taken sea around her. “How do I look?”

Isabela’s smile was warm enough to break her heart. “Like a fucking warrior princess,” she said. Then, lightly bussing Hawke’s cheek: “Now get up there and slay everyone in your path, or you’ll have to answer to me.”

She laughed, catching ‘Bela in a tight hug. They had to be nearing the crown city by now; even this deep in the hold, Hawke could hear the call of the men, the snap of the sail, the welcoming cry of seagulls. She wrapped her arms tight around the pirate’s waist and pressed her face into a cloud of dark hair, memorizing this moment. This feeling. “Thank you,” Hawke murmured against the shell of Isabela’s ear.

The other woman squeezed her back fiercely before stepping away, giving Hawke’s rear a sharp slap. “Go on,” she said. “Take a good first look at your new home, _princess_. I’m sure Andraste-crotch is dying to see you.”

“You’re the worst and I hate you!” Hawke blithely lied, dashing away the threat of tears before turning on a heel and slipping away. She wove her way back through the dark hold and up the various levels to the decks. The long skirts of her silken dress flowed like the living tides around her, gold jingling softly, catching the sunlight in a blinding gleam the moment she stepped out into fresh sea air.

Hawke paused there, at the crest of the steps, and drew in a deep breath. She looked around, aware of sailors spotting her—giving her a double-take—and…touching their knuckles to their foreheads in a gesture of respect that had her heart skittering in her chest.

_I’m not ready for this_ , she thought, but then she looked up and spotted Sebastian standing alone at the prow of the ship. He was still dressed in the simple black leathers and billowing white shirt, but something about the way he held himself as he stared intently toward the approaching shore—the gleaming city—was more regal than if he’d borne his weight in gold. She found herself approaching him even before she was conscious of moving, drawn inexorably to his side. The sun caught in his bronzed hair, on his bronzed skin, making him gleam like a god of light.

She cleared her throat. “Are you glad to be home again?” Hawke asked.

Sebastian turned, smile widening at the sound of her voice—and froze, blue eyes going _wide_. He stared at her, taking an instinctive step forward, gaze dropping down as the silky ends of her dress billowed about the curves of her body: by turns concealing and revealing. The filigree half-corset caught the light with each breath she took, and the way he was looking at her—eyes darkening, lashes flickering low—made something hot and _slick_ uncurl deep in her belly. Her nipples tightened, clear against the smooth silk, and Sebastian wet his lips.

_Maker_. The way he was staring—devouring her alive—had her flustered in an instant. She squeezed her thighs together, riding out the surge of reflexive pleasure. “Sebastian,” she said.

“You are so very beautiful, my Marian.”

She loved when he called her that— _my Marian_. Color crept up to heat her cheeks. “You can thank Isabela for that. Though the merchant captain may not thank her for raiding his goods.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. His lips were parted and those brilliant blue eyes swept over her heated cheeks, the bared line of her throat, the tops of her breasts—down, down to the bit of thigh exposed by each gust of wind. The gorgeous dress unfurled around her, flowing like mist; like a banner. Each brush of his gaze was a palpable touch, and she shivered against the intimate feel of Sebastian mapping every inch of her body, as if he could memorize this moment.

Maker, but she was getting _turned on_ , more and more and more the longer he stared at her. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breaths came rabbit-fast; her breasts heaved against the clinging silk of her dress, and all at once she felt naked before him—thrown back in time and place to that sacred crypt with its statue of Andraste and its oculus and the feel of his mouth on her skin.

_Fuck_ , she was wet. She was dripping, achingly wet, and he hadn’t even touched her.

“ _Sebastian,_ ” she said, voice strangled.

Sebastian took an unsteady step forward. “You are…” he said, voice thick with brogue. “So beautiful. I would pay a king’s ransom to be able to drop to my knees and worship you right now.” She looked around them, startled, flushed, _wanton_ , but they were alone. The crew seemed set on giving the returned prince privacy for this weighty moment. “I would give up my birthright for the privilege of hooking one thigh over my shoulders and licking my way into—”

“Sebastian!” Hawke swayed, all at once unsteady on her feet.

He dragged his gaze down her body one last time before reaching out a strong hand to her. “I will try to behave,” he said, chagrined. “But you have unlocked a very dangerous door, _ma cridhe,_ by letting me take such obscene liberties with your body. I am afraid I will never be able to sate my hunger for you. I will always want to touch, to taste.”

Maker, but now _she_ wanted him to bend her over the ship’s railing and have his way with her. One hand bracing her hip, the other thrusting thick fingers between her thighs as he wrung out broken cries from her shuddering body. What a strange sort of figurehead they’d make; Isabela would heartily approve, and that was the only warning Hawke needed to reel her unruly imagination back in. “I…can’t say I’m disappointed to hear that,” she managed to say. Her fingers curled in his, warmth against warmth. The archer’s callouses made her shudder, an echo of pleasure curling in her gut. It took everything she had not to fling herself into his arms and damn the consequences. “But perhaps we should…wait until we’re somewhere private. That isn’t the kind of homecoming I think your people will be expecting.”

“Out of sight and out of danger again,” he agreed, then sighed. Sebastian tugged her closer, folding her within strong arms—her back against his chest, his chin resting on the crown of her head. Hawke curled her arms over his, feeling wonderfully surrounded, protected; _cherished_. Andraste’s tits, but she’d never even realized she’d _wanted_ to feel this way, but now… Now it was like the answer to every dream she’d ever had.

She stared out across the waves toward the shining city, heart still pounding double-time in her chest—body throwing sparks even as her stomach curdled with nerves. _I can’t believe we’re really doing this._ “What do you mean out of danger again?” Hawke asked, needing to hear his voice.

Sebastian sighed. “We may be leaving the dangers of Kirkwall and its Templars, but we are entering a viper’s pit of court intrigue. Are you ready to face that?”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Hawke said quietly. Starkhaven stood spread out before them, its city cast in shades of rose and gold, rising and falling in neat concentric circles surrounding towering walls.

The palace—Sebastian’s _home_ —stood crouched on its highest hill, overlooking the gleaming city like a snowbird, its gilded claws digging furrows into rocky cliffs. She’d seen paintings of its great ziggurats before, of course: they’d always struck her as beautiful in ways she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to internalize, ceilings painted with mosaic blues and geometric stars; bone-white columns branching out into veins of gold; statues guarding arched doorways and hidden nooks and a thousand-and-one dangerous little corners.

“Politics are a dance here in Starkhaven,” Sebastian was saying. “One I intend to end. But first I must face those who would exploit the death of my family to take power. I must watch their steps and learn their tempo, so I do not make a misstep of my own.” He sighed and turned his face to press a kiss to her neck, her temple. Together they watched Starkhaven come ever-closer. “Idealists are often fools. I aim to avoid that trap—but if finding lasting peace means making myself a target, then so be it.  I only wish I had not brought you from the forge into the fire.”

Hawke squeezed his arms, folded so protectively around her. “The fire hasn’t managed to burn me yet,” she said. “It has to catch me first. You know,” she added after a silent beat, “it’s funny. We met because you hired me to help you get vengeance for your family.”

“And the Maker’s will be damned,” he agreed. “I remember.”

“And later, after the Harimanns, you struggled with deciding whether you should return home to claim your birthright or remain in the Chantry. And now…here we are.”

He brushed his lips down the arch of her neck. “Here we are,” Sebastian echoed quietly.

“You’re here because of me,” Hawke said. “You have to face this because of _me_. Is this…”

_Is this what you really want?_ she could have said. Or, more to the point: _Am I what you really want?_ But the words stuck in her throat, refusing to be spoken. What would she do if he hesitated? If he said no? If…

Sebastian caught her chin between his fingers and gently tilted her face, until she was looking back at him. His expression was so young, so earnest, cracked open and impossible not to read. In it, she saw so much love. So much _devotion_. A hope and a vow and an iron-strong determination that had her heart swelling in response.

This man. This impossible, wonderful, _good_ man was looking at her as if she were his northern star, and Maker, how could she deny a feeling that ran that deep?

“Marian,” he said, voice rough with feeling. The look in his eyes its own sort of answer.

“Hush,” she whispered, turning in his arms. She pressed close, sliding her fingers into his hair, and lifted up onto the balls of her feet until their mouths were just a breath apart—her skirt unfurling around them, the cry of gulls overhead, Starkhaven in the distance. “I know. I love you too.”

And as the ship crested the waves leading into the waiting harbor, Hawke pulled Sebastian Vael, prince of Starkhaven, into a long, deep, blissfully perfect kiss—the kind of which even Varric, bless his romantic soul, would have heartily approved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Your comments have made me so incredibly happy and kept me going despite everything. I hope you enjoyed your happily ever after. <3


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